An “Online Community” of the Nineteenth Century

by Pat Pflieger

From 1841 to 1872, monthly issues of Robert Merry’s
Museum brought young readers fiction and nonfiction, poetry and
puzzles—and sympathy, companionship, and a complex web of
relationships both virtual and real. “Merry’s Monthly Chat with
His Friends"—at first, only a page or two where the editor could
address his readers—evolved into a column where 20,000 virtual
cousins bickered, teased each other, and held discussions in an
imaginary parlor. While the magazine and the community it fostered
clearly pre-date the Internet, the Chat essentially was an “online
community.”

It didn’t start that way.

*Robert Merry’s Museum
was founded by Samuel Griswold Goodrich,
already famous in 1841 as the creator of “Peter Parley,” a garrulous old man
who loved to tell stories about all he’d seen and learned in his long life.
The Museum wasn’t Goodrich’s first foray into periodicals for children:
*Parley’s Magazine had
begun publication in 1833, though Goodrich
edited it only for a year.
Under Goodrich’s editorship, Parley’s Magazine printed the occasional
letter from its subscribers: mostly little descriptions of the letter-writer’s
home town, or
charming queries about Peter Parley, himself.
So popular was Peter Parley, that plagiarists borrowed him to prop up their
own works (one prime offender was the ancestor of a respected children’s
literature scholar), and Goodrich found it expedient to kill off the old
gentleman in 1840, in a work on metaphysics entitled Peter Parley’s
Farewell.

“Robert Merry” was a new creation and a fresh opportunity,
the putative editor of Robert Merry’s Museum, which
began publication in February 1841.
Soon, Goodrich was receiving letters from young readers; one resembling a
small advertisement for the magazine was printed in October (1841.2.127). By
April 1842, “Robert Merry” was filling a regular column with letters very much
like those Goodrich had printed in Parley’s Magazine: tiny
geographical descriptions, little descriptions of a subscriber’s
activities, puzzles for subscribers to solve. The column also gave
the editor space in which to inform readers of what would appear
in future issues, and to gently tease them about some of their
letters. In 1848, the column began to be called “Merry’s Monthly
Chat with His Friends”—a title it kept until the magazine folded
in 1872.

The Chat grew and grew, especially after John N. Stearns
took over the Museum in 1855. A new editor, “Hiram
Hatchet,” assisted “Robert Merry.” The Chat’s tone shifted
dramatically in 1855, when letter-writers argued over how to prove
an algebra problem: heaping scorn on each other’s proofs soon led
to heaping scorn on each other, and the Chat’s formality dissolved
into wordplay and genteel zingers. A merger of the Museum
with Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet in 1857 added new editors—“Uncle
Frank” and “Aunt Sue”—and new letter-writers to a column
that threatened to take over the magazine.

Through gossipy letters, relationships developed between subscribers
and the editors, and subscribers and each other, culminating in a real
meeting in Stearns’s parlor in December 1865. In 1868, with the
Museum sold to publisher Horace B. Fuller, the party ended:
the new editor, Louisa May Alcott, published only letters “of
general interest,” usually with a little moral; the “Puzzle
Drawer,” edited by Aunt Sue, expanded as the Chat shrank.

“Merry’s Monthly Chat” = Red
“Puzzle Drawer” = Blue

The Chat (and the Museum) limped along until November 1872, when the
Boston Fire apparently killed off both. Through its 32-year
history, the Chat moved in a circle: from Robert Merry talking to
readers and readers talking back (1841-1856), to readers talking
mostly to each other (1857-1867), back to “Uncle Robert” talking
(sometimes crisply) to readers who occasionally got a word in
edgewise (1868-1872).

The Museum wasn’t the first American children’s
magazine to print letters from subscribers: Parley’s
Magazine scattered letters throughout its issues from 1833 to
1844. Nor was it the only magazine to print such letters:
in 1852, Woodworth’s Youth’s
Cabinet acknowledged and commented on letters in “The Editor’s Table Talk,”
occasionally quoting from letters received; by 1856, the column had evolved
into “Uncle Frank’s Monthly Table-Talk,” with a sprinkling of letters from
subscribers and a lot of talk from Uncle Frank. What makes the Museum
unique is that this is
the only American
children’s magazine to develop its own sense of community. In the
pages of the Chat, readers and editors encouraged each other to think of
themselves as members of a family socializing in an imaginary parlor, a room
somewhere beyond the pages of the magazine not subject to the laws of
geography or time.

For its readers, the parlor became the kind of virtual
space experienced by many users of computers and of the Internet.
“Everyone who works with computers,” William Gibson has noted,
“seems to develop an intuitive faith that there’s some kind of
actual space behind the screen.” (in Turkle, 265) The Chat
developed because of a perceived “space behind the print”: a sense
that there was a real “Robert Merry” developed into a sense that
there also was a real “parlor” for those who wished to converse.

This space behind the print was created by Samuel Goodrich.
He’d done it before in creating “Peter Parley,” the guiding spirit
of his most popular books. Pictured
*on the covers or
*in the frontispieces of the
books he purportedly wrote, Parley was a distinctive figure: an old man “in
a cocked hat and coat with big lapels, and pockets stuffed with goodies,” who
told stories about history and geography, in “a grandfatherly, homely,
fireside way.” (*Mitchell, 330, 333)
Plagued by gout, he warned the children in the
*frontispiece of Peter Parley’s
Method of Telling About Geography to Children to “Take care there!
take care boys! if you run against my toe, I’ll not tell you another story!”
Readers believed implicitly and absolutely in Peter Parley: “It was a great
break-down of our young cherished image to learn in after-life that the cocked
hat, and staff, and big pockets were only purest, untruthful fancies,” one
reader mourned as an adult. (*Mitchell, 333)
Augustus Gaylord cherished a “tender sympathy” for the “long-haired,
quaker-hatted venerable old man, crutch at his side, bandaged foot extended
on a chair,” which lasted until he received the “severe” shock of meeting as
an adult “the Parisian dressed and hatted S. G. Goodrich, with his neatly
dressed and curly wig.” (in *Derby, 117)
And, when Goodrich toured the South in 1846, he was mobbed by excited young
fans expecting to see Peter Parley—some of whom were distinctly disappointed
in the very real Goodrich; one boy, visiting with his grandfather,

ran his eye over me [Goodrich] up and down, from top to toe. He
then walked around surveying me with the most scrutinizing gaze.
After this he sat down and during the interview took no further
notice of me. At parting he gave me a keen look but said not a
word. The next day the gentleman called and told me that his
grandson, as they were on their way home, said to
him:—“Grandfather, I wouldn’t have anything to do with that man;
he ain’t Peter Parley.” “How do you know that?” said the
grandfather. “Because,” said the boy, “he hasn’t got his foot
bound up, and he don’t walk with a crutch!” (Recollections
vol 2: 323)

Ironically, while Parley is a very real presence in the books
written and edited by Samuel Goodrich,
he’s an absence in
*Parley’s Magazine,
which Goodrich may not have created entirely by himself, and which he edited
for only the first few months of its life. A regular column in the magazine
in 1833 ostensibly shows Parley with some fascinated children, but the man
featured is younger than Peter and doesn’t look like him; Parley wasn’t
pictured on the cover until at least *1836.
Even issues edited by Goodrich are eclectic collections of articles
and poems, without the connecting link of Parley’s personality; the
old man’s voice comes through only in a letter to a little girl,
reprinted in the June 8, 1833 issue (109-110).

The figure of “Robert Merry” was an inspired invention.
Merry could josh forgetful subscribers into paying for their
magazines or could couch editorial announcements in terms that
young readers would understand. Because early-19th-century
magazine publishers often sent the magazine even if payment hadn’t
been received, subscribers could well be in arrears; editors could
emphasize that readers of the Museum weren’t sending their
money to an anonymous entity, but to Robert Merry, himself: “We
know you will not let Robert Merry … go hungry,” the editor wrote
in 1855 when too many subscribers hadn’t sent payment.

Readers took Robert Merry to their hearts almost
immediately, sending him letters of praise and criticism, and gifts. A. P.
M. apologized for not visiting Merry when she was in Boston: “I went to
Boston a year ago, and wished to go and see you; for I thought you would be
disappointed if any of your subscribers went there without visiting you. But
I only staid two days.” (1846.1.190) Merry’s responses were intimate and warm
as he spoke directly to his correspondents: “Jane R— will accept my
thanks for—she knows what! If she were not so many hundred miles
off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is a blue-eyed or
black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly received from
Alice D—, and were very welcome. Ralph H— will see that I have
done as he requested; I have given a
*portrait of the fine gray
squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as
ever.” (1841.2.187) Comments on letters, and Robert Merry’s
editorials, emphasized his personality and the pleasure he got from
receiving the messages. “I am gratified to find,” he wrote in
1842, “although it is now but about a year since I began to be
known to the public, that already I have some thousands of
black-eyed and blue-eyed acquaintances, in different parts of the
country. I receive many letters from young persons, and they give
me great pleasure, for they show that poor Bob Merry, though he has
a ‘timber toe,’ is not destitute of friends.” (1842.1.95)

Under Goodrich’s editorship, Merry stayed firmly in
character as an old man who had done much that he regretted, but who had
learned from his experiences. Mindful
of his time spent in prison, he responded to Suzy W.’s description of the
birds near her house by asking her not to “catch and cage them. We know
what it is to be in prison, and wish every creature to enjoy liberty.”
(1852.1.95) Having thrown away a chance to get an education, he noted how
wonderful it was that readers were “content to hear stories from one who never
went to college.” (1842.1.127) Again and again he reminded readers that he
wasn’t young and wasn’t able-bodied; and he expressed pleasure and surprise
that readers still responded to him. “I know that the young, the happy, and
the gay-hearted, are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad—disposed to look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more
ready to preach than practise charity,” he admitted in 1841. But he was
reminded of an old walnut tree which he shook to make “the fruit rattle down
like hail,” and hoped that “young people, instead of running away from me, as
a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will treat me as I did the old
walnut-tree—give it a shake, and see if the nuts do n’t rattle down!”
(1841.2.186-187) Merry often expressed gratitude that readers took “an
interest in poor Bob Merry; and I think all the better of young people, who
can be kind to
an old fellow with a wooden leg”.
(1842.1.127) Although the wooden leg disappeared from the
*cover illustration of Robert Merry as early
as 1844, it stayed with him in the Chat until around 1854, when a change
in editors was in the offing as Goodrich turned the magazine over to new
owner Stephen T. Allen: “[D]on’t, for any consideration, get mixed up
with the War in Europe,” William Hoyt Coleman warned before the editor went to
France to consult with Goodrich, “for if a cannon ball should happen to take
off your other leg, I don’t know what we should do. … So mind!”
The response hinted at the coming change, warning that “we may get
a new leg in France, instead of losing the old one, that has stood
by us, or, rather, which we have stood by, so long; and you may not
recognize us, when we return, as
the same old cripple.”
(1854.1.192)

Goodrich’s Robert Merry established an intimacy between
editor and subscriber that was an important factor in the creation
of the virtual world of the Chat. Readers knew that their letters
were treasured: “I feel cheered by these pleasant, lively letters;
and sometimes, when my old pate reels with hard work, and my eyes
grow dim as I think over the sad fortunes that pursue me, I go to
the package of my correspondents, and there find consolation. ‘No
matter—no matter,’ say I to myself, ‘if all the world deserts or
abuses me, at least these little friends will be true to me!’ So,
thereupon, I wipe my eyes,
clean my spectacles,
whistle some merry tune, and sit down to write something cheerful
and pleasant for my Magazine.” (1842.1.127)

In the Museum’s early years, the letters column was
established quickly as a place where subscribers talked to their
editor, and where he talked back. Many early columns had personal
messages from editor to reader, as Merry
commented directly on
individual letters. Twenty-two-year-old Laura Chapman was flirted
with: “Instead of sending us the flower she promises, she may send
us her miniature. We have an eye for things of that sort yet.”
(1844.1.126) Cornelius, who’d forgotten to pay the postage on his
letter, was gently teased for “forgetting to do things as they
ought to be done…. Suppose, for instance, that a person should
get into the habit of eating carelessly; why, at last, instead of
eating the meat, and rejecting the bones, he might swallow the
bones, and reject the meat! Think of that, Master Cornelius.”
(1842.1.127) Soon, readers were responding in kind, sending jokes
through the mail or teasing Merry about an unfinished story in the
magazine with an equally roundabout, unfinished story. Richard P.
H. felt he could turn to Merry for “a simple account of the stars,
and other heavenly bodies,” and Merry promised to comply when he
had time to write and space in the magazine to print it, asking,
“Will you be patient, Dick?” (1844.1.125, 124) Fanny and W. A. C.
dreamed about him.
Missing subscription money gave Robert Merry a chance to joke with his
readers, as Edway B. P.’s letter was introduced with a bit of
gentle humor anthropomorphizing the dollar Edway had sent: “The
dollar spoken of, must have been a sly fellow, for when the letter
came to the publishers, behold, it was missing! … If we can catch
the fellow, we’ll write his memoirs, and we think it will be a
pleasant story. We think the life and adventures of a dollar that
crept out of a letter one day, would be equal to
*Bill Keeler’s story of the eel in the aqueduct.
If, after all, our little friend forgot to put the dollar into the letter, he
may send it to the publishers of the Museum. This will be satisfactory to all
parties, though it may spoil a good story of a runaway dollar.” (1844.1.125) Edway’s letter was followed by an editorial
postscript: “P. S.—We are just informed by Messrs. Bradbury & Soden, that
the stray dollar is found. It appears that it was in the letter, but crept
on to the floor; it was caught, however, and is safely put in crib.”
(1844.1.126) Kate was assured that “If all our readers desert us but Kate,
we engage to print one number a month for her especial gratification.”
(1850.2.188) Merry was responsive to readers’ requests: for simple works
for beginning readers
(“*Alfred Poole" and
“*Little Leaves for Little Readers”),
for the reprinting of a serialized story
(“Take Care of No. One!”),
for the end to the reprinting of a serialized story
(“Take Care of No. One!”). The
intimacy of the Chat probably was strengthened when the death of a subscriber,
nine-year-old Laban Lewis Meriam,
was announced in the column; though Lewis’s
ethical sense and devotion to the Museum may have been intended as a
model for other readers to follow, the announcement emphasized that Robert
Merry was interested in his subscribers and wished to
share news of them.

Robert Merry also made readers privy to editorial decision-making:
“ …as to printing all your epistles, you must consider
that I have Bill Keeler’s stories to put in, and the Old Man’s in
the Corner, and a great many other things. I have, indeed, so many
matters crowding into my columns, that I am this month obliged to
leave out Dick Boldhero altogether!” (1844.2.63) The readers’
place in the Chat was strengthened by the introduction of imaginary
subscribers with whom Robert Merry often consulted after 1845.
Richard, James, Annie, Jane, Robert, and John advised Merry on the
contents of the magazine (1845.1.1-7), “ratified” the merger with
Parley’s Magazine (1848.2.33), and opened and read to him
subscribers’ letters (1850.1.126-127). Other imaginary readers
accompanied Robert Merry on his imaginary balloon travels in
1851-1856. Seeing themselves reflected in these characters no doubt
helped real subscribers feel a connection with the editor and the
magazine.

Under John N. Stearns’ editorship, the virtual family,
the virtual parlor, and the virtual chatting were fully developed;
and the Chat became a virtual online community. In these years,
especially, the bond between editor and readers was strong,
cemented by exchanges of portraits and by visits in real life.

The virtual community got a good start in 1854, when the
Chat began to develop as a “real space” where readers met. Robert
Merry—at that time Stephen T. Allen—helped to define the
letters column as a “private” place, separate from “the world
outside”: “Now that we are all here together,” Robert Merry wrote,
“let us have a little talk about our own personal affairs. We
don’t like to hear people talking of themselves among strangers,
but in one’s own family and among his select friends it is a very
different thing.” (1854.1.157) William C. Cutter, writing as
“Hiram Hatchet,” extended the metaphor when he temporarily took
charge of the Chat, encouraging readers not to be “abashed … at
seeing a stranger in Mr. Merry’s chair” and calling the column “a
sociable” where all should “feel quite at home, and speak
out plainly just what you think.” (1854.1.190) Two months later,
Hiram was refining the metaphor, in a letters column two pages
longer than it had been the month before (and three pages fewer
than it was the next month):

Our friends are growing very chatty …. A whole evening is not
long enough for our chat. Last month we were compelled to break
off in the middle, while several persons were watching their
opportunity to speak. Some, who had their speeches all ready, were
obliged to hold in, for want of time and room. This time we have
resolved to give every one a chance, and have invited the company
two hours earlier than usual. If this will not do we shall sit it
out till midnight … (1854.2.252)

What Cutter had in mind when he invited everyone to stay late for
a “chat” is unknown; but by the time S. T. Allen returned to the
offices that fall, the readers apparently had begun to think in
terms of a parlor, where they sat in conversation.

Readers asked for descriptions of the editors and were
obliged: “I think you [Hiram Hatchet] and Robert Merry, and Peter
Parley, and S. G. Goodrich, are all one person,” Mary declared in
1854. “Have I guessed right?
[Not exactly.]”:

We say “not exactly,” dear Mary. We mean not at
all. S. G. Goodrich—everybody knows him, and we need not
describe him. Peter Parley, everybody knows him by reputation, but
not by sight. He is an exceedingly well-to-do looking sort of a
man, having all the experience, observation, and practical wisdom
of a man of sixty, but looking, for all the world, like a fresh
blown youth, whom any of our sweet Marys, or Annies, or Charlies,
would call brother, or cousin, at first sight. …

Robert Merry is a younger man, always cheerful, sometimes
even gay, but having withal what a good old writer calls “a
commendable gravity, well becoming one who would benefit the young,
as well as please them.” He is of medium size, with fair rotundity
of proportions, a plenty of dark hair and whiskers, and a smile
always lurking about his mouth, which seems to
say—Behold a friend of children.

Hiram Hatchet is a boy—past fifty—but a boy yet; tall,
lean, gaunt, sharp built, like a hatchet, or a clipper ship. He
looks as if the wind would blow him away, if it could only get hold
of him, but he is so sharp he cuts through it, whichever way it
comes. He is bald, gray, and grisly, and children instinctively
call him grandpa. (1854.2.224)

The merger with Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet in
1857 had a major impact on the development of the Chat as a cosy
community. Most notably, it extended the metaphor of the “Merry
Cousins” under the guidance of their “uncles” and “aunt.” Hiram
Hatchet had been referred to as “Uncle Hiram” from his appearance
in the Museum in 1854, and subscribers began to refer to
each other as “cousin” in 1856; but to readers, Robert Merry
remained “Mr. Merry.” Francis C. Woodworth and Susanna Newbould
were addressed as “Uncle Frank” and “Aunt Sue,” in their columns
in the Cabinet; after the magazines merged, these columns
were maintained for several months.
Meanwhile, the image of the “Merry family” strengthened and deepened;
and Robert Merry joined the family as “Uncle Robert.”

Now readers began to explore the parlor metaphor in
earnest, offering chairs to each other and asking to sit beside
other readers. “Commodore, there is an empty chair on this side
of the room, if you are not too bashful to sit among the girls.
Sailors are not generally troubled with timidity,” Sallie offered
in 1858. (1858.1.127) Though Uncle Hiram asserted that “there’s
room enough” (1857.1.89), Willie feared that there would be no
space for him: “I am a sick boy. I should like to see all my
cousins in their snug parlor, and have an introduction; but as I
would have to take my bed with me, I fear there would not be room;
so I must postpone the visit, hoping to be acknowledged as one of
you. I will try to acquit myself creditably when I can stand on
my own footing again.” (1858.1.126) Fleta Forrester played with
the idea of actually conversing: “O. O.—(Wait a minute, I’m not
hurt. I was merely calling friend Oliver Onley’s attention.)”
(1859.2.59) The parlor image was refined, until Josie could speak
of the “glare from chandeliers,” the “hum of a hundred voices,” and
“music’s witching strains” as she entered. (1860.2.26) On a less
florid note, in 1862, Jennie B. D. found that she could come home
from school on a “dreary, rainy afternoon” when she had a cold,
open the Museum, and immediately find herself “in the Chat,
listening to the voices of old and new Merrys.” (1862.1.188)

To a large extent, the success of the Chat as an online
community depended on subscribers’ belief in the reality of Robert
Merry, the Chat, and each other. The Cousins appeared to
experience, not so much a suspension of disbelief, as an unwavering
belief in Robert Merry and in the world of the Chat. Especially
for younger readers, Merry was a real presence simply because he
said he existed: they seem not to have thought to question either
his existence or what he said. They saw his picture in the
magazine, read his autobiography, enjoyed his joshing editorials.
And, they believed in him. “When you were here the other day,”
J—s L—n wrote, “I got a peep at a man they told me was you; but as
he had n’t a wooden leg, I have some doubts whether it was really
you.” (1844.2.63) If readers wondered about him at all, it was to
be puzzled that he and Peter Parley and Samuel Goodrich could be
one and the same: “Father says that Peter Parley and Robert Merry
are all one,” Thomas L—e admitted in 1846;

but, if so, ’tis a greater puzzle than the Siamese twins. However,
I don’t think they are the same, for old Parley wrote in a simpler
and easier way that you do. There are some big words in your
magazine, which it takes me as long to spell out as it does to
climb over a stone fence. However, I like you pretty well, and
intend to come and see you soon. (1846.1.63)

Believing in the Cousins was more difficult, perhaps
because subscribers (and their parents) were hard put to imagine
that letters from children would be published, even in a children’s
magazine, as the editor confessed in 1844:

One of our little friends seems to be suspicious that the letters
we insert are invented and written by Robert Merry himself, and not
by the young persons from whom they seem to come. The letters
inserted are the genuine productions of the various correspondents
whose signatures they bear. Every mail brings us some of these
epistles, and at the end of the month, we have quite a flock of
them—welcome as blue-birds in March.” (1844.1.128)

Readers still weren’t convinced. A sure test, apparently, was the
printing of their own letters, as Blue-Eyed Mary pointed out in
1851:

Although I am a Buckeye yet I possess a due share of that Yankee
quality called curiosity, which induces me to write you a letter
and see if you would publish it; that being the only method I could
devise to discover whether the numerous letters you publish are
really from all the black eyes and blue whose names are attached
to them, or whether they are the productions of your own fanciful
brain. (1851.2.94)

Who wrote the letters was given a different spin during the Chat’s
busiest years: not whether they were written by subscribers, but
whether subscribers were misrepresenting who they really were. The
revelation that a popular female subscribers was actually a
young man made the Cousins suddenly aware that the letters could
be written by anyone:

Don’t you think if we could get a photograph of the Uncles, aunts,
and cousins, as they really are, it would make a “diverting
scene,” as my good grandmother says…. Now, here is quite a
middle-aged gentleman passing himself off as a gay youth; then
there is a little girl and her mother—the Merry cousin they
represent is about eighteen. (1862.1.26)

Finally, in late 1860s, the question came full circle, as letters
were so chatty and alike that to some the Chat took on the air of
a “secret society.” Herman hesitated to write his first letter,
because he “feared—in fact, often believed—that all the
little “Chats” were made up, in other words, written by one person.
… All the correspondence bear such a similarity to each other—in
fact, the same words and general expressions are used in nearly
all the letters, that I could hardly believe that twenty or forty
different correspondents should adopt almost the same style.”
(1867.1.122) Others just venturing to write letters weren’t sure
of their welcome, since the Chat appeared to be some secret club.
Eula Lee entered the “charmed circle” with “some fear and
trembling,” but a “young Western friend writes to know something
about this Merry circle—‘if it’s a secret society, what the rules
and regulations are, etc.’ Now, as I am not one of the initiated,
I must e’en come to headquarters for information. Won’t some one
enlighten us?” (1865.1.89) Sid described the imaginary Parlor as
a “lodge-room”: “Visions of a mysterious room—purple velvet
hangings—cabalistic signs—goats—sheets, etc.—all the
paraphernalia of a well-conducted lodge-room of the Sons of Malta
style cross my mind’s eye—ugh, and a big, grim sentinel with a
two-edged sword.” (1865.1.91) Toward the end of its life, the
Merry Cousins were so chummy and clubby that the virtual community
felt virtually closed to outsiders.

Essentially, the Chat was a “moderated list”; letters
sent to the offices of the Museum were skimmed by editors,
who decided what did and didn’t get printed: “We like to encourage
improvement of every kind; our letter-writing friends will
therefore recollect, that we never insert a letter that comes in
bad handwriting; that has bad spelling; or that has
bad grammar; or that is badly punctuated.”
(1849.1.160) But this moderated
list also operated as a MUD: its
ultimate aim was community and conversation. “The members of the
Chat and Puzzle departments,” the editors reminded readers in 1865,
“form a social and Merry circle for mutual improvement, to hold
familiar chats, and cement friendships.” (1865.2.120) As in MUDs,
participants in the Chat carried on several “conversations” at once
and “created a persona,” via their pen names and what they revealed
about themselves. The Chat was in a different medium, but it had
many of the characteristics and problems we find in online
discussion.

Both groups must deal with “lost” messages. In
cyberspace, the letter-writer mutters about computers and computer programs,
and resends, having plenty of experience in what can go wrong in e-mail. But
knowing that their letters were chosen by the editors meant that the Cousins
took the loss personally: “If H. H. puts me in a basket again, I shall
certainly do something desperate,” Nippinifidget growled. (1858.1.26) “The
fact is,” Uncle Hiram responded, “Uncle Sam likes your letters so much, he
won’t let Uncle Hiram see them.” (1858.1.26) Paranoia apparently was endemic.
“All the letters written to us do not reach us,” the editors admitted. “ …
Now, if a letter which you send us does not appear in its place in the Chat,
would it not be quite as kind and just to suppose it had not reached us, as
that we had wilfully slighted you? Try it, and see. It will make you more
comfortable, and
we more happy.” (1858.2.186)

Misinterpretation of messages occurs in cyberspace as often
as it occurred in the Chat, as will be discussed later. But, in
the case of the Museum, misinterpretation was multiplied by
typographical errors, as Nellie Van pointed out in 1864:

Uncle Hiram, did you know that you had misrepresented me
in one of the old Chats? [April 1862] According to the gospel of
Mr. Hatchet, I come out in this style:

“Fleta, I am glad you didn’t see those ‘languishing gray
eyes,’ etc., for I like you better than Sybil Grey.”

Now, Cousin Sybil, I am sure I never said any such thing,
and although I dislike to lay the blame on the shoulders of others,
yet I won’t take it myself, myself not being guilty.

Uncle Hiram—poor Uncle Hiram—who bears our
reproaches so patiently, must receive the burden. How hateful I
am to blame you, am I not?

Uncle, if I knew of anybody else upon whom to “visit my
wratch,” I would surely do it. (1864.1.90)

Hawthorn, a Southerner having a tiff with some Northern girls,
complained when a typographical error didn’t help. His letter as
printed began by addressing one of his opponents: “You doubt the
bravery of the Southerners, then. Well, I’ll forgive you for
your extreme ignorance, my Older cousin,” he went on,
apparently addressing Adelbert Older, an innocent bystander.
(1860.1.123) “Uncle Hiram,” Hawthorn complained in the next issue,
“I must take you to task for the way my letter was ‘used up’ ….
What is the matter with your typos? It should be as follows: ‘You
doubt the bravery of the Southerners, then. Well, I’ll forgive you
for your extreme ignorance. My Older cousin, I was truly
grateful,’ etc.” (1860.1.186) The tiff continued.

“Bandwidth” was as much of a problem for the Chat as it
is in cyberspace. Uncle Robert found as early as 1844 that not all
the letters received would fit into the pages of the magazine:
“ … as to printing all your epistles, you must consider that I
have Bill Keeler’s stories to put in, and the Old Man’s in the
Corner, and a great many other things. I have, indeed, so many
matters crowding into my columns, that I am this month obliged to
leave out Dick Boldhero altogether! However, I find that our
subscribers like Our Correspondence very well, and therefore I
shall put in as much of it as my space will allow.” (1844.2.63)
The font size in the letters column decreased; leading grew
lighter, to leave more space for words. The column expanded
between months: “Last month [when the Chat was 3 pages long] we
were compelled to break off in the middle, while several persons
were watching their opportunity to speak,” Uncle Hiram wrote at the
beginning of a 5-page column of letters. “Some, who had their
speeches all ready, were obliged to hold in, for want of time and
room. This time we have resolved to give every one a chance, and
have therefore invited the company two hours earlier than usual.”
(1854.2.252) Sorting out those letters too difficult to read or
written in such a way that the type setter would have difficulty
didn’t filter out enough letters to keep the Chat manageable:
“Last month we had ten pages of Chat, and this month—if we printed
all that we want to—we should have twenty.” (1855.1.121) The
editor tried printing only extracts, but soon realized that “If I
fill our space with extracts, I shall omit hundreds of letters as
good as those that are noticed.” (1854.1.60) Instead, Hiram
Hatchet wielded an imaginary ax to cut letters to a manageable
size; and when this ax “burned up” in the fire that destroyed the
Museum’s offices in 1861, a mechanical
“double-back-action-high-pressure-condensatory-manipulator” went
“Kerr-clickety-crunch-kerr-clickety-crunch” as it chopped the
messages. (1863.1.120) Still, the Chat threatened to take over the
magazine until the editor reshaped the focus of the Chat in 1868.

Compared with online communication, the Chat had a
disadvantage which is in keeping with the disadvantage online
communication has compared with face-to-face discussion—and
which some will find no disadvantage at all. Communication by
written word, many point out, lacks the emotional cues we depend
on when speaking with others. But participants in MUDs have
avatars, and online chatters have emoticons, which the Cousins
didn’t—and probably couldn’t—develop. Thus, even those
slight cues were missing from their letters. If writers attempted
such personalization, the transition from letter to print would
have erased it, given the expense of producing such typographical
cues and the editorial need to
compress the letters. But writers
to the Chat may not have attempted to express themselves via visual
cues, perhaps because their method of communication lent itself to
wizardry with words, perhaps because the Merry Cousins enjoyed
wordplay and the game of writing a letter so tight that editors
couldn’t or wouldn’t cut it. Puns became the Cousins’ stock in
trade: “[A]re not puns rather too prevalent?” Annie Drummond
asked. “Puns, puns! Puns painfully persistent, puns purgatorial,
puns puerile, puns puzzling, puns pungent, puns possibly probable
and probably passable. Have pity, oh, ye punster! Must ye
forever prevail, preponderate, and predominate?”
(1864.1.153) In reply, A. N., blamed the editorial requirement to
“be short”: if letters could be longer, she would “eschew puns
forever. But it is because one word is made to carry double the
meaning that puns are so popular among us. It is a species of
smuggling that must be very common where there is such a
high tariff on ideas.”
(1864.2.24)

Like online communities, the community of the Chat was
essentially democratic. It’s been pointed out that online communities will
weed out those who don’t feel comfortable communicating via the written word.
(Suler, “E-Mail Communication and Relationships”) The
same is true of the Chat. Managing
the implements of communication might seem to weed out even more. But,
just as few people in cyberspace can’t manage a keyboard or its
equivalent, few among the Merry Cousins, couldn’t manage to write.
Letter-writers included the youngest readers of the magazine, who
couldn’t yet manage a pen, but who could dictate their letters to
siblings or to parents. “Mother says she will write what I
dictate,” one boy wrote (1850.2.159); “My mother is holding my
hand,” five-year-old Ellen explained, “so that I can write you my
first letter.” (1851.2.160) The Chat had its share of lurkers,
some by choice, some by destiny. Certainly not all the 20,000
subscribers wrote letters; definitely not all letters were printed.
Some subscribers, like Bertina, read the magazine for years before
writing in:

Long ago, when I was a little wee thing, a messenger entered our
home, bearing the title of “Parley’s Magazine.” Years have rolled
away since then, and under another name it has ever been welcomed
at our fire-side, and all through childhood’s days the beloved
Museum has been my dearest companion, and as we grew up together,
nothing gave me more happiness than to spend hours over its magic
pages. All these years I have been with you, till your names and
faces are become as familiar as those of my friends. I have been
with you unseen, when the circle re-echoed with joy and gladness;
and when the shadow of the “dark-winged angel” has fallen heavily
upon you, I, too, a sincere mourner, have been with you in your
grief.

And now, dear Uncle, I come timidly seeking admittance to
the hallowed circle, and if there are found none among my Cousins
willing to add me to their number, it will give me pleasure only
to linger quietly in the charm of their presence. (1865.2.123)

Lizzie N. F. had never planned to write in, herself: “Heretofore
I have been content to sit by and watch the rest as they sought
introductions to one and another of the cousins, without a thought
of doing the same thing myself. But I have come to the conclusion
that it will be a decided benefit to me to take a part
myself.” (1871.1.151-152)

But the Chat was essentially democratic. All, the editors
pointed out, had a chance to join in. “All subscribers to the
Museum,” the editor pointed out in 1865, “are members [of
the Chat], with equal rights and privileges and corresponding
duties.” (1865.2.120) He might have added “and non-subscribers,”
for several letter-writers admitted that they didn’t take the
magazine themselves, but borrowed it from friends or read it at
school. Regardless, each had a chance to see his or her letter
printed in the Museum—much to the apparent
surprise of the readers. Other readers weren’t
so sure, however, that all were equal in the Chat, since each issue
seemed to contain a letter from certain Cousins, while their own
were ignored. “I have sent you three correct readings,” Frank
Kellogg scolded in 1856, “ … but there has been no notice taken
of them, and some dozen riddles, &c. I have sometimes thought, if
I should sign my name Black-eyed Mary, or Willie Coleman, I should
have a hearing.” Robert Merry remonstrated:

If you send correct answers, and they do not appear, it is because
they do not come in season, or do not reach us at all. You see,
we have “Black-eyed Mary” in this same number complaining of the
same thing. We have three articles from Willie Coleman, which we
have no room for now, and nearly every letter in this Chat is cut
down from one half to two thirds. … If any one is left out,
don’t let him be grumbling. We often have to leave ourselves out
to make room for others. (1856.1.61)

And, in fact, when one reads the Chat, some subscribers—such as
Black-eyed Mary (aka “Black-Eyes”) and William Hoyt Coleman—do seem to have had letters in every issue; but a look at
the numbers reveals that their letters appeared just about every
two or three months—still above the average, but not nearly
as often as is apparent.
Later writers joked about the “bright particular stars” in the
column—who included Willie Coleman.
(1859.1.123-124) But writers could find their letters printed in
the Chat, even if, like Blue-Eyed Lora, it was on
their eighth try.

As in cyberspace, in the Chat geography was irrelevant—at least, in whether or not one could join in. Geography could be
a problem during puzzle contests, since the letters of some
subscribers arrived later than those of others. Lucy, who moved
to Oregon Territory in 1857, had perhaps the worst difficulty: her
letters regularly took a month to reach New York—though one
needed 71 days—and the magazine often took a month to reach her.
(1858.1.92) Pinckney Latham, of Tennessee, solved a contest puzzle
within three hours, but his answer was late arriving; he humorously
tied his problem to the growing sectionalism in the country and
called on Robert Merry for help:

I shall certainly expect you to aid us unfortunate Tennessee boys
in getting up a petition to President Pierce to have our
country moved nearer to yours, in order that we may have a
fair chance and equal rights with your nearer subscribers; this,
father says, is good, sound state rights doctrine.
(1854.1.94-95)

Sectionalism—and civil war—did turn geography into an issue.
But when the mails ran, where readers lived was, as Roland
pointed out, irrelevant when it came to who could “converse” in the
Chat:

What a “thing of might,” and, withal, what a blessing, is the
printing-press! For example: I, an uncouth and unworthy specimen
of the genus homo (or, more appropriately, puer), on
the Gulf of Mexico, [Roland lived in Florida] have—through the
instrumentality of the Museum—made the acquaintance of a little
flower ’way up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. (1861.1.156)

As seen in online discussions, the Merry Cousins could and
did choose to “connect with” certain others: for several months
in 1852 and 1853, Darius G. Maynard and a New Hampshire subscriber
named “G.” each sent Latin puzzles for the other to translate—and added some polite belligerance: “I would like to see if G. of
the Old Granite State will get this out quite as easy as he did my
other,” Darius wrote. “If he does, he will please to let me know
it.” (1852.2.186) The algebra problem which radically shifted the
tone of the letters column originally was sent for William Hoyt
Coleman to solve. (1855.1.61) Other subscribers tended to respect
the connection, submitting neither translations nor puzzles to the
“Latin fight.” Only after Willie Coleman made hash of his proof of
the algebra problem, did others jump in and make equal hash of their
own.

What the Merry Cousins had to say to each other was
preserved in a permanent record, in much the way online discussions
are preserved—though the Cousins’ messages may be more permanent
than those in cyberspace, since the letters are on paper, and not
subject to the vagaries of electronics and of overextended
archives. The Cousins could quote one another and defend misread
messages—and return to earlier discussions for present battles.
The permanent record also could be used to unify the Chat; it made
possible William Hoyt Coleman’s “Retrospectum,” the history of the
Chat which eased subscribers to Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet
into the world of the Museum when the magazines merged in
1857.

“Cyberspace,” John Suler has noted, “creates a unique
temporal space where the ongoing, interactive time together
stretches out.” (“Basic Psychological Features of Cyberspace”)
The asynchronous nature of communicating means that a
message may have been written days before, but as it is read and
responded to, the discussion seems to exist in its own “now.”
Writers on e-lists can reread a message until they feel they fully
understand it; they can carefully plan their responses; they can
revise and polish, until the response presents not only what its
writer wishes to say, but also presents the writer in the best
light. Online discussion, Suler points out, “may reflect a
distinct cognitive style that enables some people to be more
expressive, subtle, organized, or creative in how they communicate.
Some people feel that they can express themselves better in the
written word.” (“The Final Showdown Between In-Person and
Cyberspace Relationships,” in “Psychology”) Lag-time is the
advantage that online discussion has over real life. It was an
advantage the Merry Cousins understood. The Chat was the product
of leisure: subscribers needed time to read the letters and to
compose their sometimes-complex answers, especially since a premium
was put on “spiciness” and on an ability with words.
“I like your Cabinet and Museum very much indeed,” William
W. wrote in his only letter printed in the Chat, “but have never
had any time to get out the puzzles and enigmas, as I work in the
mill, and have to keep busy from morning till night.” (1857.2.59)
Some readers dropped out as they took on new roles in life:
Winifred married; Puss began a new life in California; William
Forrest Oakley took a break from writing while he adjusted to being
head of the household after his father’s death; William Hoyt
Coleman quit writing after he began a career.

The Chat had its own primitive lingo. “X” or “ex” referred
to the exchange of photographs between Cousins. In the Chat, the
word “cousin” or “coz”—sometimes capitalized—was used to
designate other subscribers.
After 1855, the word “algebra” had connotations not found elsewhere; and
“That Problem”—capitalized—meant only the algebra problem that
changed the tone of the Chat.

In keeping with other virtual communities, the
subscribers to Merry’s Museum indulged in most of the forms
of conversation described by Gary Shank. Monologue, as he
describes it, consists of one “sender” and “one or multiple
receivers who listen passively to the message of the sender.”
Lizzie G. sent richly detailed descriptions of her life in Paris
from 1849 to 1851; William Hoyt Coleman wrote a description of the
boarding school he was attending (1855.1.29) and recorded the
antics of the family kitten. (1855.1.186-187) These letters were
enjoyed by other readers,
but there were few other responses to the descriptions; they are “seamless”
and complete, and other readers may have
felt little need to respond.
Dialogue, “the basic model of all dyadic oral communication” consists of a
sender and receiver “taking turns.” Darius G. Maynard and a New Hampshire
subscriber certainly indulged in this form of conversation during their
“Latin fight” in 1852; each politely sneered at the other, and the rest
of the Cousins stayed out. Multilogues, however, were the
specialty of the Chat. Shank describes the way that a sender will
start a thread of conversation which, since “the mechanics of Net
response do not require turn taking,” immediately leaves the
sender’s control:

From the oral side, it is as if everyone who is interested in
talking can all jump in at once, but still their individual voices
can be clearly heard. From the written side, it is as if someone
had started writing a piece, but before he/she gets too far, people
are there magically in print to add to, correct, challenge, or
extend the piece. … [W]hat we have is a written quasi-discussion.

The Merry Cousins would have known exactly what he was talking
about; they were well-versed in the art of the multi-thread
discussion.

“Threads” became part of the Chat soon after the virtual
parlor was established. In 1855, Robert Merry debated with “Mary,
of Pleasant Retreat,” the benefits and drawbacks of city living and
country living. And the algebra war is basically a long, unwieldy
thread. Unlike citizens of cyberspace, the Merry Cousins seem not
to have expected that the threads they introduced would be
followed; certainly there were few, if any, complaints when their
subjects weren’t pursued. While there was a real pleasure when
someone commented on what someone had written, there was more a
sense of subscribers being clever, having a say, commenting on the
comments of others. The Cousins were particularly deft at carrying
on “multi-thread” conversations as complex as those found in online
chat rooms—complete with puns and with references to comments
made months earlier—letters that pulled in just about everyone
in earshot. “Here I am again,” Emmie M. Johnson wrote in 1859,

ready for my share of talking, although I do not want as much space
allotted to me as some others, for it takes too much time to write
such a long letter. In the first place, Master A. Older, of what
length of time do your ages (of which you speak) consist? Please
answer in the next number for my special edification. Second, we
see in Mrs. Black-Eyes’ letter, that “somebody” has had the
confidence to call her “grave and matronly.” To think of
her, especially, being sobered down. Now, Uncle Hiram, I
wish you to answer me one question: because a lady chooses to
marry, must she necessarily become as dignified as a judge? Third,
Willie H. Coleman, I think that you, sir, should remember the
“short and sweet” rule. And Flibbertigibbet too. Have I spelled
the horrid name right? Excuse me, Flibb, but I generally say what
I think. (1859.2.59)

As readers took the Chat away from the editors in the 1850s, many
letters became threaded paragraphs of greetings to other
subscribers.

Especially, however, online communities and the Chat shared
psychology. “Online is its own place,” one computer user asserts.
(in Turkle, 231) So was the parlor.

This virtual space developed almost entirely without any
visual cues beyond the *cover
illustration of a man talking with children; there wasn’t even an
illustration at the top of the column until 1868 (mostly because there
wasn’t space for one). Sherry Turkle speaks of “step[ping] through the
screen into virtual communities” (177); to some extent, the Cousins appear
to have had same reaction; Jennie B. D., in 1862, lost herself in the Chat
on a dreary day, “listening to the voices of old and new Merrys” (1862.1.188)
In Turkle, there is a sense that something is going on on the other
side of the monitor, some other consciousness is at work there,
some other life is taking place there,
which computer users can enter.
The Merry Cousins may have been having a similar experience, as the editors
showed them a world behind the print on the page. In 1848, on the merger of
Merry’s Museum and Parley’s Playmate, Samuel Goodrich showed
Robert Merry and Peter Parley “putting their heads together,” in print and in
an illustration. (1848.2.4) He also gave real subscribers a glimpse
of Merry consulting with imaginary readers and a detailed—and
humorous—look at
an editorial muddle.
In 1855 Stephen T. Allen gave a look at how
letters were chosen for the Chat.
These behind-the-scenes glimpses no doubt led to a sense that just beyond the
cover of the magazine, just behind the text on the page, lay another world
which readers could enter. The fact that the letters were put into their own
column also must had added to the development of a sense of community. Though
the editors were in charge, at heart the Chat was the subscribers’ section of
the magazine, and seeing the letters printed one after another adds to a
sense of a lot of very chatty people in a room.

To some extent, the parlor where readers could chat with
editors and with each other seems to have sprung from the office
where subscribers were welcomed and where business was transacted.
Almost from the beginning, the office was a place where subscribers
were welcome to visit, and some took advantage of trips to Boston
or New York to call on the editors: Merry was “highly gratified
to have a call from [Clementina Tompkins], as she passed through
New York, last summer. And we hope none of the Merrys will ever
pass, without calling.” (1845.2.187) The transition from office
to parlor was almost instantaneous. The editorial chair from which
Hiram Hatchet admonished readers not to be “abashed, young friends,
at seeing a stranger in Mr. Merry’s chair” (1854.1.190) was an
“easy-chair” a few months later, as Uncle Hiram welcomed Robert
Merry back to his place at “the table, around which the young
Merrys are gathered for the monthly chat.” By now, the image of
the parlor had taken hold in the column. “Bless me! how cheerful
and pleasant everything looks here, and how glad I am to get back
again,” Merry exclaimed. (1854.2.310)

The Cousins cooperated in creating this virtual place,
offering seats to one another and writing in terms of the metaphor.
Josie and Nannie Nightingale described the other Cousins as if at
a gathering; Juno complained that she had been “sitting in the
corner since the first of February [six months earlier], and not
one of the cousins has spoken a word to me” (1864.2.62); Jolly
Jingle planned to gather with other subscribers and “read in that
cosy corner by the fire. Yes, we will, Uncle Merry, don’t
you say ‘no!’ ” (1865.1.91)

For the Cousins, the parlor was its own place, a place
where they could play. Sherry Turkle develops the idea of the
“psychosocial moratorium” originally explored by Erik Erikson: the
idea that there is a period when one can experiment with new
interactions and modes of thinking
without experiencing the
consequences. Turkle argues that this moratorium is no longer just
a phase, but a “mode of experience” bolstered by virtual
communities, which “offer permission to play, to try things out.”
(203-204) There is a sense that the Cousins felt the same way
about the parlor, that it was a place where they could play and
experience no real consequences. William Oakley’s revelation of
his true gender had no real consequences and was handled with
humor, not shock. In the Southerners’ letters to the Chat, slaves
became “servants,” if they were mentioned at all; and the coming
war between North and South was the subject of joshing and gender
battle. Real life receded into the background. The Chat also was
a place where some Cousins experimented with new modes of
adulthood. Several who saw themselves as budding writers tried
their skills in the Chat. Lizzie G. was inspired by seeing her
letter in print:

I certainly never expected to see myself in print, so early in
life, and great was my excitement when I saw my letter published
in a real book! … [When her friends came to play with her] I was
busy, in imagination, with printers and publishers, who were
contending for the honor of bringing out my “last work,” in twelve
volumes! The perils of authorship rose before me, and with one
breath I blew down all my unstable castles in the air, and was a
little girl again, much to the satisfaction of my governess, and
my friends, who I really believe began to think me crazy….
(1850.1.157-158)

Laura Elmer honed her skills as a poet. William Hoyt Coleman
practiced journalism by sending Uncle Robert a description of New
York City under a blanket of snow, of boys swimming in the Hudson
River, and of Independence Day celebrations.

Online communities, Turkle points out, allow some users
to “reconstruct a sense of middle-class community” which, for
economic reasons, they lack in real life. (243) Over-qualified for
their ill-paying jobs, they find satisfaction in using their skills
to create a virtual world where they can have what real life has
thus far failed to offer them. To some extent, the same thing was
happening in the Museum. In a nation going through a period
of social and political upheaval, the Merry Cousins shaped a place
where the upheaval either wasn’t taking place, or where it could
be discussed safely.

The issue of women’s rights was discussed in the pages of
the Chat, as it was in real life; and in the letters column, at least, the
girls found a place to assert themselves against the boys and to express their
hopes for something they weren’t yet able to articulate. It’s impossible to
say with any certainty (one popular female subscriber turned out to be a
prankish teenaged boy), but the number of girls in the Chat appears to be
about equal with the number of boys.
The girls held their own in the flame war that broke out over an algebra
problem in 1855; and they brooked no condescension from the boys. “Willie
Coleman, ‘Bay State,[’] R. W. R., and all the rest of the conceited (it is a
habit Young America unconsciously adopts,) male Algebraists of the Merry
family, must learn not to sneer at the weak efforts of the
feminines to compete with them, and finally quietly submit to being
totally eclipsed by the superior brilliancy of ‘female genius,’ ” Alice
B. Corner warned. (1856.1.187) She wasn’t alone. Alice’s support of “the
hackneyed and much abused subject of ‘Woman’s Rights,’ ” and her sense that
she could use her talents to win “future fame and glorious renown” once she
understood what her “ ‘call’ ” would be for were
quashed by Robert Merry;
but other female readers understood. Bella Bassett had “a ‘still small voice’
way down in the deepest recess of my heart, which has seemed to cry for
knowledge, and I have so wished that I could write something beautiful and
good!” (1856.1.188); it was Black-Eyes who—though no supporter of women’s
rights—sympathized and redefined the voice for her: “I have heard that
‘still, small voice,’ too, Bella, and it was but very lately that I could
distinguish what it said. I can a little now. Listen attentively, and
you will hear such sweet things.”
(1856.2.27)

The spreading of the population across the continent broke
up families and communities in real life—but not in the Chat.
While Cousins who lived far from the magazine’s offices pointed out
that they were too far away to take part in the magazine’s puzzle
contests, geography was no barrier to their participation in the
letters column. Even Lucy, whose letters from the Oregon Territory
could take over a month to arrive at the Museum’s offices,
was for a time a steady participant.

Even the growing sectionalism as civil war became likely
was mitigated in the parlor. No specific reasons for the
sectionalism were ever expressed. Instead, the Cousins joshed
about it: facetiously grousing about the pet-names she was called
in the Chat, Southerner Busy Bee asked Uncle Hiram to look into the
matter. “I feel that my grievances are very great,” she
claimed, “and I shall most certainly ‘secede’ unless you give me
proper ‘guarantees’ of better treatment in future.” (1861.1.156)
The Chat provided a safe place for the Cousins to express their
anxieties, as Southern boys and Northern girls engaged in a gender
battle. Once the War came, the Cousins—several of whom had
biological relatives on the opposing side—vowed that their bond
wouldn’t yield: “[A]lthough I belong to the Confederacy of the
Seven Stars, I hope I am not yet lost,” Hawthorne wrote in 1861
from Mississippi. “Although my State has withdrawn from the United
States, I have not the slightest idea of seceding from the
Merry Union.” (1861.1.154) As secession progressed, some
Northern Cousins suggested a raid on the Confederacy to bring the
others back to the parlor. “Send me after [Cornelius
Gibbs], Uncle!” Ellian offered. “How can I penetrate into
Secessia? Will King Cotton’s pickets allow me to pass their lines?
I’ll tell you, I’ll go down just behind General McClellan,
and bring him back in triumph. Give somebody
a commission now for Hawthorne.”
(1862.1.58) Reconstruction was a different matter. Aunt Sue and some of the
Cousins were welcoming: “Some of my Southern correspondents come back a
little shyly, as though uncertain as to how they would be received,” Aunt Sue
wrote. “Bless your dear hearts! Only come back and shake hands, and the
hearty grip you will receive shall convince the most sensitive that
we feel nothing but love and affection for you all.” (1866.1.27)
Annie Drummond’s welcome was equally warm: “Tennessean! is it
possible? I’m delighted to see you, and here’s my warmest welcome.
You may lay the flattering unction to your soul that this Merry has
not forgotten you—never!” (1865.1.157) But Tennessean’s
refusal to repudiate the South and Jefferson Davis drew fire from
Jennie, whose brother was killed in the War; and their exchanges
grew so heated that one of Tennessean’s letters, at least, was
edited, and
he withdrew from the Chat.

But, for the most part, the Chat was a place where the
Cousins were safe to express their real selves.

Such online chat environments as the Palace—studied by
John Suler—count on “superusers” for “hosting, advising, and
socializing new users” and “controlling deviant behavor in the
community,” as well as “acting as consultants” to the corporation
running the site. These “wizards” are drawn from the ranks of
members, selected for their value to the community. It is a job
with high status and with responsibility commensurate with the
power involved. Wizards can “discipline” an unruly user by
temporarily freezing the user’s avatar; they can even disconnect
a user or ban him or her from the site. They also know the
identities behind the avatars. Because it’s a job with a lot of
power, it’s a job with a lot of status and authority, and ordinary
users of the environments react accordingly, rebelling against or
pandering to them. (Suler, “Wizards”) Some users even masquerade
as wizards, “one of the more common types of impostoring.” (Suler,
“Bad Boys”)

The Museum also had its wizards, primarily, of
course, the editors of the magazine, who chose which letters—and
which parts of those letters—were printed. Occasionally,
however, subscribers to the magazine became wizards in their own
right. Several subscribers wrote stories, articles, or poems for
the magazine; William Hoyt Coleman was selected to sum up the
history of the letters column in his “Retrospectum; or, The Chat
in Bygone Days.” Jasper, In the Corner, Leslie, Tommy, and Loyalty
planned the “Merry Convention” held in John N. Stearns’ parlor.
Fleta Forrester took over the Puzzle Drawer in 1865 and 1866, in
Susanna Newbould’s absence. Geographical proximity to the
Museum’s offices probably was key in the fact that these
subscribers became “supersubscribers”: Jasper and the other
members of the committee lived in or near New York City; Willie
Coleman occasionally dropped into the Museum’s office.
Interestingly, though, the subscribers accorded this status—especially Willie Coleman—had much in common with those chosen
to be wizards in the online Palace. Users nominated for wizard
status, Suler has pointed out, tend to be “friendly, mature,
helpful or generically ‘great,’ … good at handling snerts [unruly
users] and/or helping new users, … knowledgeable about Palace
technology and culture, and … online a lot.” (“Wizards”) Willie
was probably the most popular Cousin in the column, the one
mentioned most often by new letter writers. His often-humorous
letters have a disarming and friendly tone that invites response
even 150 years later; he was careful each time that a new
subscriber mentioned his name to greet that subscriber in a
subsequent letter. Other than the algebra war, he took part in no
other flame wars in the Chat. Dropping into the office made him
privy to the
procedures used to produce the Chat;
that, combined with his years as a subscriber (at the time he wrote the
“Retrospectum,” he’d taken the magazine for 11 years), made him an
expert in the Chat’s culture. And, amusingly, he was
“online a lot,” sending in letters, puzzles, and puzzle answers to
at least 60 out of 108 issues from 1853 to 1861. Being online has
a practical benefit for wizards in the Palace, who must be
available to help when needed; it probably didn’t have that kind
of benefit in the Museum, though when a popular subscriber
revealed that she was married, Willie’s comments—in the very
next letter on the page—may have helped to ease the shock for
the other subscribers.

Though some subscribers expressed discontent that other
subscribers were published more often than they were (see, for example, Frank
Kellogg’s complaint), there’s no sense that other Cousins attempted to usurp
these “wizards’ ” roles, probably because they knew that
the editors were really in charge.
Perhaps Willie Coleman, whose common name made for some confusion with other
members of the Chat, came the closest to the kind of identity theft Suler
describes. The one person whose role was usurped was editor Hiram
Hatchet, who received a dose of morphine from 11-year-old Jeannie Parker, so
he wouldn’t “be awake” to cut her letter short: “Now I’m going to speak, and
what’s more, I want to be heard. And first, here’s a little morphine for
Uncle Hiram; it won’t hurt him; and now he’s out of the way, I will proceed
without fear of molestation.” Uncle Hiram, of course, was complicit in this
act, since he could completely censor the letter; the proceedings must have
amused him. Jeannie had her say; and the letter ends only when she “notices”
that “Uncle Hiram is recovering from the effects of that morphine. Had a
good nap, Uncle?” (1861.2.59)

Suler’s history of the Palace, especially the section
on “Coping with the Masses,” shows an online community with a
surprising amount in common with the Merry Cousins, including
attempts to establish status. People, Suler reminds us, “want to
acquire some measure of status, position, and power … not
necessarily to control or dominate others, but rather to feel a
sense of personal value and importance. They want to BE SOMEbody,
and not just anybody.” The players at the Palace found creative
ways to establish status, most notably “placing a variety of
unusual keyboard characters next to their name, as if wearing
‘badges’ to signify some kind of imaginary status or position [the
Palace wizards could put an asterisk beside their names], or as a
way to identify their membership to a particular clique.” Stealing
the identity of a wizard was a sure way to high status. The Merry
Cousins were just as aggressive in trying to establish status; it’s
simply that the aggression showed up in a different way. In the
Chat, status depended on power over words, rather than on power
over others; instead of wresting power from other players, by
taking over their avatars or masquerading as Palace wizards, the
Cousins wrested attention from other subscribers, by indulging in
elaborate feats of cleverness—like Jeannie Parker’s—or
wordplay.

Like any self-respecting online community, the Cousins
indulged in flame wars; though in the
Chat flaming often had unexpected consequences: instead of splitting the
group, in the Chat it tended to bring readers together. The first flame war,
begun in 1855, was central in the development of the column as a virtual
community. “That Problem,” as it came to be called, looked simple:
x2 + y2 = 8;
x + xy = 6. To the
mathematically inclined, the answer is easy: x = 2; y = 2. To
the Cousins, however, the difficulty lay in proving the equation.
Proving it to the satisfaction of the
other Cousins, that is. Such exacting mathematicians were the subscribers
that each proof offered was pooh-poohed by the audience; month after month
the Chat contained proof after proof.
Subscribers heaped scorn on each attempt: “I presume [William Hoyt Coleman]
will have no objection to telling us what kind of stump puller he employed to
extract so remarkable a root,” X. demanded after Willie offered his first
proof, which argued that x + y was the square root of
x2 + y2.
(1855.2.154) Others sprang to Willie’s defense; some sprang to the defense of
his attackers; and the fight was on. Not content with scorning each other’s
proofs, the Cousins scorned each other’s mathematical skills and, finally,
scorned each other. Describing the algebra war in mock epic style, Willie
Coleman gives a flavor of the proceedings:

Here might be seen R. W. R. punching X. in the head, and the latter
giving him as good as he sent; then, were Black-Eyes and E. P. Shaw
in close pursuit of Problem, who was rushing up and down the field,
upsetting and sky-tossing every one who came in his way; farther
on were Ellen and G. B., having a little private fight by
themselves; while in the center lay Willie C., sprawling on the
ground, a woeful spectacle of “caved-in” humanity. All was wild
confusion. (1858.2.184)

At first, the editors could only look on in horror:

Mary, black-eyed Mary, do you think Merry’s Museum a
Sebastopol, or do you want uncles Robert and Hiram to have “black
eyes” too, that you have projected into our quiet camp, that
terribly mischievous missile, which you call a problem? It has
exploded—it has, and blown up Willie Coleman, X., G. H. B., and
lots of others, and we don’t know when they will come down again.
They are all by the ears, and you are the cause of it. We do not
suppose you intended any harm—but pray look about you, and see
what you have done. We should like to see those black eyes, when
they catch the first glance of this page, and peruse the report of
“slaughter and confusion dire” which we are
obliged to make up. (1855.2.153)

Finally, Susanna Newbould (“Aunt Sue”) proposed a “bill of peace,”
and the editors clamped down on discussion of either proof or
Problem.

Strangely for those who’ve experienced a flame war in
cyberspace, the algebra war didn’t divide the subscribers, but
united them; and it changed the tone of the Chat from genteel quiet
to genteel rowdyism. The puns and wordplay that characterized the
Cousins’ assaults on each other became the standard; and the casual
tone that emerged in the heat of battle remained a characteristic
of the Chat in peacetime. “The character of the Chat was entirely
changed,” Willie Coleman noted. “Every one essayed to wield the
keen blades of wit and repartee, and fearful was the discharge of
puns, jokes, and jests .… ” (1858.2.185)

Editors, of course, were ultimately in charge of what went
on in the Chat—and what went on in the flame wars as well. “I
tell you what, boys,” the editors cautioned during the hottest part
of the battle, “we must have no fighting, or calling hard names at
our table. Leave that to members of Congress, many of whom are
below being disgraced by any amount of blackguardism. The Merry
boys must never forget that they are gentlemen.” (1856.1.156) For
the most part, they tried to ensure that the Chat was a place where
readers could express themselves. “Free discussion is the best,”
Robert Merry said in answer to a subscriber who felt that another
should just “keep his thoughts to himself, if he wishes to fare
well with the Merry family”:

Let every one express his mind. We must not think the less of any
body because they don’t think as we do. The right of individual
opinion is sacred to all. What we of the Merry family want is a
fair field and full discussion, and then see if we don’t all think
alike, and pull one way like good fellows. (1855.1.158)

Thus, when Tennessean closed a letter in 1858 by wishing
“Love, to my Southern cousins; respects, to my
Northern ones,” Robert Merry let it stand, wondering only that,
while the letter’s first sentence was “worthy of a philosopher….
How could it have been written by the same pen which
wrote the last!!” (1858.1.57)

Occasionally, though, the letters were edited to keep the
peace. In 1857, Sigma (actually, Fleta Forrester) described shooting an
abolitionist in effigy; in the letter as printed, the
name was a blank. Sigma
suspected why: “When the original epistle departed this city (not this
world, as I feared), the name stood bravely at its post, but I half
suspect when it arrived at its journey’s end, it fell through.” (1857.1.92)
The editors remained silent on the subject as one Southern reader speculated
over and over on the identity of the “gentleman.” It wasn’t the
only letter snipped; the editors usually stepped in when things got
too personal: “Our friend Hawthorne seems rather ‘put out’ at the
‘Yankee girls,’ and says some things not very complimentary about
them; so we must use the scissors rather freely” (1859.2.60);
“Jasper calls somebody names, and so gets crushed by the
manipulator.” (1864.1.29) C. W. Johnson went after “a very saucy
[letter] from ----” and Hiram Hatchet admitted, “Just as we reached
that word ‘from,’ Uncle Hiram brought down his hatchet, with such
force as quite annihilated the name that followed, declaring that
it was his prerogative to cut up the ‘saucy’ young fellows. He is
afraid of quarreling among the young folks, and don’t believe in
dueling.” (1859.1.157)

Usually the editors’ practice kept the peace—and the
subscribers. Cousins seem to have taken the hints inherent in the
non-silent editing. It was silent editing that caused at
least one subscriber to bow out of the Chat. After the Civil War,
one returning Southerner—Tennessean, who seemed to have a genius
for such things—drew the wrath of a Northerner and found one of
his letters so edited that it didn’t reflect what he’d actually
said:

Now in my few remarks to my belligerent little Cousin Jennie, I
was, as I thought, excruciatingly meek; but the manipulator made
me so very humble and contrite that I didn’t “know myself.” And
this was not by alteration at all, but by omission, a clear case
of “suppressio veri,” for which I am guiltless! I take the hint,
however. I am not to “ ’spress my ’pinions” so publicly….
(1866.1.90)

Community was the central focus of the Chat; subscribers
were operating in a way that one Internet user equates with MUDs:
they were “making a world together. You got no prestige from being
abusive.” Bulletin boards, he points out, tend to privilege
flaming: “There was a premium on saying something new, which is
typically something that disagrees to some extent with what
somebody else has said. And that in itself provides an atmosphere
that’s ripe for conflict.” (in Turkle, 218) Like bulletin boards,
the Chat privileged liveliness, wordplay, and “spiciness,” often
at the expense of other readers. However, the moderating practices
of the editors were a moderating influence on the subscribers, and
community was maintained.

Identity was as fluid in the Chat as it is in cyberspace.
Sherry Turkle has pointed out that the Internet encourages “models
of psychological well-being” that “admit multiplicity and
flexibility.” In cyberspace, there is no rigid sense of gender,
of identity; we can explore the “different aspects” of our
personality. (263) The same occurred in the Chat, with subscribers
creating personae through pen-names and through what they chose to
reveal about themselves. “In [the Internet’s] virtual reality,”
Turkle asserts, “we self-fashion and self-create.” (180) It’s
impossible to know to what extent the Cousins were having a similar
experience. Some didn’t “play”: most who didn’t were fairly
young; most who did were at least in their teens. Black-Eyes
didn’t reveal that she was married; William Forrest Oakley didn’t
reveal that he was male when he wrote his first letter as “Bess”
at age 19; he didn’t reveal his real identity when he blurred his
full name into “Wilforley” after Bess was forcibly retired.
William Hoyt Coleman was 11 when his first letter was printed; he
chose then not to adopt a pen name. However, at age 13 he wrote as
“Jack Thump,” the imaginary friend of a fictional character popular
in the Museum—which he revealed several years later.

In contrast with Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet,
where
subscribers usually were listed
by name, the Museum allowed—or, perhaps, encouraged—subscribers to adopt pen-names. Here, subscribers seem to take the chance to
express creativity and joy in wordplay; or to express their “true identity.”
Love of word-play was expressed by such names as Uno Hoo, Double-you-see,
and Bob White. Readers played with typographical symbols: !—-!
and †*†; 1/20000 obviously represented one of Merry’s
20,000 readers. Female readers often named themselves after
flowers: Pansy, Moss Rosebud, Daisy Wildwood, Wild Rose, Hyacinth,
and Anemone. Readers named themselves for a favorite piece of
literature—as Minnehaha did—or for a favorite writer—as
Fanny Fern Marble referred to
“*Fanny Fern.” Some
subscribers appear to have tried to created a personality through
their name: Minx, Flibbertigibbet, Nippinifidget,
Knippeniphidgette #2, Roguish Kate, and Saucy Nell may have
described their characters—or what they would have like their
characters to be—in their names; Mustard may have considered
himself or herself “sharp.” Once a reader took a name, it was used
by no other; “Comet No. 2,” the editor warned, “you will have to
find another name, as there is another of your species somewhere
in the Merry heaven, and in Merry Astronomy does not predict when
it will reappear.” (1867.1.157) But occasionally readers changed
their names, and then the old name was up for grabs;
“Minnehaha wants to change her name,” the editor wrote in
1864. “Who speaks first?” (1864.1.29) At least one subscriber
(Lillie Linden) had to change her name (to Rubie Linden) after a
newspaper columnist began writing under the former name.

Not all subscribers took their naming seriously; Malta, for
example, confessed that “I have been in the most deplorable state
of ignorance as to the prettiest nom-de-plume. I at last
concluded to name myself after the first living creature which
entered the room. Just as I had decided so to do, in came old
puss.… ” (1858.1.90) The editors took naming more seriously.
“There is no place in the Chat for ‘Sorry’ Cousin,” the editor
chided in 1864. “Take a look in through the open door, and if then
you are still ‘sorry,’ please do not come again. ‘A rose by any
other name,’ etc.” (1864.1.124) The Cousin reconsidered: “As you
are all for a change, and have done much for my change, I shall
submit to have Sorry Cousin changed, and wish you to
EX-change with Better Cousin.” (1864.2.185)

There can be an illicit thrill in using a pen-name; under
an assumed name, we can explore facets of ourselves which might shock others.
The Cousins may have had the same experience. When she described shooting an
abolitionist in effigy, Fleta Forrester signed herself “Sigma,” a
name she dropped
after only a few letters. She had written as Fleta to Woodworth’s
Youth’s Cabinet, before it merged with the Museum. Perhaps her
first letter to the Museum, which her family had taken for
over ten years, represented a fresh beginning and needed a new
personality which she then decided to shed; perhaps the subject
matter of the letter made it seem appropriate to take on another
identity. She wasn’t the only subscriber to adopt multiple
pen-names; Sybil Grey confessed that she’d once written to the Chat as
a boy. Uncle Robert noted the enticement of adopting a pen-name,
but preferred an optimistic interpretation that acted as hint or
as self-fulfilling prophecy: “One can scarcely be selfish here,
for do we not professedly leave ourselves behind, and under chosen
nommes de plume appear as we will? And when selfishness is
laid aside, and one is what he would be, then we learn what beauty
human nature is capable of.” (1865.1.56) In the virtual parlor,
hiding identity may have given the Cousins latitude to explore less
worthy facets of their personalities; but also it allowed them to
show their best side.

And they did. Revising allowed the subscribers to be
their wittiest; editorial compressing probably sharpened that wit
even more. In the Chat, identity was established mostly through
the pen-name chosen and through a talent with wordplay and quips.
Many subscribers who wrote to the magazine probably did have
a certain talent for wordplay, since it often formed the basis for
the Museum’s puzzles and contests. To some extent, the
personae in the Chat were what Robin Hamman calls a “collaborative
effort” between the letter-writers and the letter-readers.
“Others,” Hamman points out, “will re-create us in their own
imagination.” The Cousins did re-create each other
in imagination, sometimes sending glamorous descriptions of the
imagined other. But there was other input as well: the editors,
who selected those letters which were considered most printable.
With
one humorous exception,
the letters chosen were the liveliest and
the best written.
“We like to encourage improvement of every
kind,” Robert Merry reminded readers in 1849; “our letter-writing
friends will therefore recollect, that we never insert a letter
that comes in bad handwriting; that has bad spelling;
or that has bad grammar; or that is badly punctuated.
Those who wish to appear in print will please remember all this.”
(1849.1.160) Describing in 1855 “How It’s Done,” Robert Merry
focused on lively letters from articulate readers: “if the letter
is well written, you perhaps might hear some such comment as this:
‘That boy will make music for us;’ or, ‘That girl has the ring of
the true metal.’ ”; as Robert Merry reads, “at every good hit you
will see him rolling back and forth in his great chair, shaking all
over with laughter, usually closing up with some such remark as,
‘I believe all the brightest boys and girls in the country are on
our list.’ ” (1855.1.121) The “coinage” of the Chat was vivacity
and a memorable way with words; the editors helped “raise the
value” of subscribers by printing only their best work.

Where there’s identity and anonymity, there also can be
“identity theft,” as John Suler points out. (“Bad Boys”) And
identity theft of a sort occurred in the Chat. Or perhaps it
should be called “identity sharing.” “Willie H. Coleman,” it
turned out, was the name of several readers of the Museum.
There was William Hoyt Coleman, of New York, who wrote to the Chat
for 14 years. But there were others. “[M]y name is not ‘Will H.
Coleman,’ ” one girl wrote,

but “Wilhelmena Coleman.” But, “for short,” the school-girls and
friends, generally, write my name “Wil H.C.” So that is why [my
sister] thinks I ought to “claim my name.” Mr. Coleman shall have
all the glory of it, nevertheless, if he will not object to my
signing it once in a great while when I write to Uncle and the
cousins 20,000, since I do not like the custom of an assumed name,
and should not feel natural to write over any other than my
favorite one…. (1861.2.58)

The third “Willie H. Coleman” wasn’t, technically, even a “Willie”;
his name was Hayden Level Coleman, though he was called “Willie.”
“Tell Willie H. Coleman that I have a great mind to have him hung
for forgery,” he wrote from Texas in 1857. “ … Ask him what H.
stands for, that I may tell my neighbors, who have come to me, and
asked who Black-Eyes was, that I should be arguing with her so
much. I told them I was not the author of the letters, and they
would not believe me.” (1857.2.184-185) Though Hiram Hatchet
suggested that “Texana signs himself W. H. C. South, and New York
W. H. C. North,” so that “in the Museum, at least, if not
in Congress, the North and South are harmonious and brotherly”
(1857.2.185), Willie Hoyt Coleman rejected the suggestion as being
too sectional. He did, however, see advantage in the confusion:
“I fear there will be some confusion in knowing which is which, and
I don’t exactly see how it will be remedied; though there will have
one advantage, namely, if you say a bright thing, I
shall share the credit, and vice versa; ditto in relation
to stupid things.” (1858.1.25) That there should be so many Willie
Colemans in the Chat is logical, given a plethora of Willie
Colemans in real life. But it’s also significant that the identity
sharing should be centered around William Hoyt Coleman, one of the
“stars” of the Chat. His high profile attracted attention;
Wilhelmena’s sister called him “that crazy-brained [fellow] who
seems to be so important in the Chat”. (1861.2.58) But, just as
online avatars in the Palace tended to impersonate the powerful
Palace “wizards,” suscribers who shared identity in the Chat shared
it with the most popular and articulate subscriber there.

from a little child, I have always had more to do with boys than
girls; my brother was always my playmate, and I was accused of
being a “tomboy,” when I was about ten years old, because I
would skate on the lake with the “other boys,” which was
then considered very shocking and improper. So much for
fashion. And when I grew older, I never forgot that “a woman can
keep her own secret better than another’s; a man can keep
another’s better than his own,” and my confidential friends
have never been young ladies.

And, in fact, her first letters to the Chat may have been under a
boy’s name; “once Sybil Grey was known in the ‘Chat’ under another
name, and that you [William Hoyt Coleman] then gave her your hand,
as belonging to the brotherhood; but concluding that, after
all, the girls have the best of it, she quietly dropped her
disguise, and none of you ever knew that Sybil Grey was an old
friend under her proper name.” (1861.2.58)

“Bess” was another matter. The first letter over her
signature appeared in 1856 in Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet.
It was a chatty piece of impertinence that seems to have amused
Francis Woodworth with its self-described “sauciness”:

I suppose, well I know, that you will think, if you do not say so,
that I have abundance of sauciness. I ’ll admit it. A girl
must have a spice of that now-a-days to elbow her way
through the world. It ’s absolutely indispensable. Don’t you
really think so, Uncle Frank?

I hope you won’t fail to give me a good “blowing up” or a
good “setting down,” no matter which, for talking so naughtily.
I ’m sure I deserve it; and let it be in your wonted style of
fatherly admonition, just as when you chuck the little ones under
the chin for saying, “I won’t,” or “I don’t love
you.” But it ’s all meant in good part, Uncle Frank, and
merely to counteract the necessary influence of so much flattery
as is continually poured on your head by your numerous
“constituents” (as the papers call it), who are interested to keep
you in good humor, so that their “enigmys” and “nannygrams,” and
the rest of ’em, shall “go in.” …

Uncle Frank, I hope you will take what I have said, just
as it has been meant, all “in good part,” and in reply (if you
condescend to reply), talk at me just as plain as I have at
you.

“Now, Bess,” Woodworth demurred, “really I can’t find it in my
heart to give you what you seem to invite. … I never indulge in
castigating a correspondent, unless my heart is in the thing. …
The truth is, Bess, I like you. I am saucy myself, and I like a
little spice of sauciness in others.” (Woodworth’s,
1856.1.198) Bess’s letters to the Museum were equally
light-hearted and light-headed—though no more so than many other
letters, by boys and by girls. She soon became one of the
most popular letter-writers in the Chat. What tipped off Susanna
Newbould that there was an imposter under those crinolines is
impossible to know, but in 1860 she began to make a series of
“darkly miss-terious hints” (1860.2.123): “Bess.—Did you
ever hear the story of the little girl who was christened
“Moses?” Well, I can’t tell it here—but I do not miss-trust
thee, Bess, else dost thou
employ amanuenses?”
(1860.2.96) Finally, in 1861, all was made clear, and an
unrepentant William Forrest Oakley uncross-dressed in the
virtual parlor (after the girls had been sent out, of course):

And now, cousins, the time has arrove. I can refrain
myself no longer. Cause every girl to go out from me. Are they
gone? Ain’t they listening at the key-hole? Now, look at me
carefully; d’ye see? that’s a mask, this is false hair, this is
cotton. This dress, you see, covers a coat; this circular
expansive arrangement only impedes the free action of my nether
limbs, encased in cassimere continuations. To sum up, I have been
an imposter, a gay deceiver, a cheat, a great big “humbug,”
as Aunt Sue will persist in calling me. I’ve confessed to her, and
she has (thus far) let me off pretty easy; so don’t you be too hard
on me. Come in, girls; I meant to have called you before. Don’t
look so shy at me; I am Bess that was, and now am
Will. Yes, yes! I expected all that. Merci,
Mesdemoiselles! * * * Don’t look at me with ill-concealed
contempt, kind cousins. Don’t curl the lip, don’t elevate the
nose, don’t perk up the chin. You don’t look well that way, and
besides, I only did it for fun, and haven’t we had some good
fun, and shan’t we have yet? Did not the great Achilles, * * *
did not Pelopidas? * * * I think they did. And if they did all
this in earnest, why may not I do a little of it in fun?

* * * * * * *

With regard to all the “love and kisses,” and other like
commodities which I may have come unfairly by, I could not, if I
would, give back the first, “bein’ as it’s” intangible; but the
second I shall keep on hand in bulk, and engage to deliver up when
called for. None but original owners [who tended to be female]
need apply. (1861.1.88)

Willie’s gender-swapping was a prank; but one has to wonder how
long he had planned to keep it up. His original letter has an
exhibitionist tone, as Francis Woodworth is called on to note
Bess’s “naughtiness”—if only to punish it. The tone
certainly got the letter printed and noticed, but Bess’s “sauciness” is
definitely overblown. It was her only appearance in the Cabinet.
While the letters appearing in the Museum were lively, there wasn’t the
overdone giddiness of the letter to
the Cabinet.

Gender-swapping may be easy to start, Turkle points
out, but it’s difficult to maintain: “To pass as a woman for any
length of time requires understanding how gender inflects speech,
manner, the interpretation of experience. Women attempting to pass
as men face the same kind of challenge.” (212) When Nippinifidget
complained that others thought she was a boy, Annie Drummond
claimed that her “speech inflections” proved otherwise: “I
know you are a girl; boys do not generally write
such spicy letters as girls.”
(1858.1.126) Sybil Grey had the correct “speech inflections” to pass
successfully as a boy; in 1861, no “young lady of refinement” used slang,
but she did, quite unconsciously: “Having more than one young gentleman
cousin, of whom I am very fond, and who like to tell me of some ‘gay old
time’ they have had, or of some ‘gay old girl’ they
know, can you wonder that notwithstanding my constant efforts to
the contrary, I have for once forgotten myself so far as to use
[that very] slang expression?” (1861.2.58) That William Oakley
maintained Bess’s identity in the Chat for five years isn’t as much
of a feat as it would have been in cyberspace, where he wouldn’t
have had weeks to write his messages. He was about 19 when Bess’s
first letter was written, and had a 14-year-old sister who may have
helped him to get it right.

“Right inflections” or not, Robin Hamman notes that men may
be “successful at gender swapping because those online want to
believe.” At first glance, this doesn’t seem to be true for the
Chat; unlike Internet communities, the Chat wasn’t brimming with
men looking for online sex. However, in the pages of the Chat, the
other did probably “want to believe: subscribers who
responded most often to Bess were girls (well, probably they
were girls) who may have wanted to believe that another girl could
be as “saucy” as
they were or would like to be.

People online often try to “get a ‘fix’ on people through
‘fixing’ their gender,” since in real life “we use gender to shape
our relationships.” (Turkle, 211) “Fixing identity” was definitely
a preoccupation in the Chat: subscribers wondered
who Robert Merry “really was”;
they guessed at
“Aunt Sue’s” identity;
they often wondered who really was writing the letters in the Chat,
suspecting that it was really adults. William Oakley’s confession sparked a
flurry of letters accusing other readers of “sailing under false
colors.” (1861.2.58) “It reminds me of the days of witchcraft,”
Pennsylvania Dick claimed, “when the only way to escape being
accused was to become an accuser.” (1861.1.183) But the
accusations died down fairly quickly.

The realization that something as basic as gender could be
hidden made the Cousins realize that fixing identity in the Chat could
very well be impossible, as Stumbler noted:

Don’t you think if we could get a photograph of the Uncles, aunts,
and cousins, as they really are, it would make a “diverting
scene,” as my good grandmother says. I do. Now, here is quite a
middle-aged gentleman passing himself off as a gay youth; then
there is a little girl and her mother—the Merry cousin they
represent is about eighteen. Then we come to a regular bona
fide young lady, just as represented. Then a fair young girl
in her teens; then, oh! that is one of the brigs that sails under
false colors. But there is a fair proportion who sail under the
true flag—most of them, I think, are for “Union,” or will be some
day. (1862.1.26)

This lack of information sometimes allowed the Cousins to
project themselves onto the others in the same way MUDs encourage projection:
“the lack of information about the real person to whom one is talking, the
silence into which one types, the absence of visual cues, all these encourage
projection. This situation leads to exaggerated likes and dislikes, to
idealization and demonization.” (Turkle, 207) Occasionally, the Cousins did
project themselves onto each other, most notably when sectionalism—and, to
some extent, gender—was involved. In 1857, Fleta Forrester—writing as
gender-neutral “Sigma”—wrote of
shooting an abolitionist in effigy. The abolitionist’s name was left a blank
when the letter was printed in the Chat—much to the curiosity of Tennessean,
who tried again and again to learn the name of the abolitionist. Not,
perhaps, the best reader in the Chat (he missed Fleta’s announcement that she
was “Sigma”), he quickly seems to have decided that the object of the shooting
was a personal hero, probably Preston Brooks, a rabidly
anti-North Senator who’d just died:

I understand perfectly, and in the name of his “aged relative” I
thank her for her present. Poor fellow! Neither the praise and
adulation of his Calhoun constituency, nor the slander and abuse
of Yankee land disturb him now, for he has gone—no, I won’t
say he has—perhaps he has not gone, as Sigma says, “where the good
niggers go.” (1857.1.119)

Tennessean may have meant that shooting the abolitionist was
a “present” to Brooks, but it’s unclear from the printed letter;
and if he corrected the letter, that correction didn’t appear,
though it likely would have. Fleta’s answer—one of the
“Extracted Essences” through which the editors kept down the volume
of the Chat—was printed; and she, too, assumed that he
was confused: “Tennessean will please take notice that the ‘real
victim of our exploit, unfortunately for the effect of his touching
tribute, does not “sleep his last sleep.” ’ ” (1857.1.186)

Certainly Cousins sometimes idealized other Cousins, most
notably Josie, whose description of the Cousins in her imagined
parlor smacks more of romance than reality:

What magnificent creature, I wonder, is that? “She is
straight and slender as hazel twigs, and (I’m certain) sweeter than
their kernels.” I am quite sure that must be Sybil Grey. And then
that little fairy near, whose eyes are “deeply, darkly,”
beautifully blue, with magnolia bloom, and wealth of sunny curls.
Who can she be? Daisy Wildwood?

I guess I can steal a few furtive glances at the boys
without Uncle Hi’s seeing me? My! I was not aware that he had so
many “children of a larger growth[”] among his nephews. That young
gentleman by the door has what I would call a striking
face—gray eyes, large mouth, great breadth and airiness about the
forehead. See! what earnestness and grace he displayed in flinging
that “tumbledown lock” back—he’s a lawyer, take my word for it;
aren’t you, Hawthorn? (1860.2.26)

“Demonization” had a sectional and gender element. After
Tennessean closed a letter by sending “Love, to my Southern cousins;
respects, to my Northern ones” (1858.1.57), a gender battle broke out
between two Southern boys (Hawthorn and Tennessean) and several Northern girls.
“Ugh! [Sigma’s] got spirit enough for a dozen! I pity the man that gets her
for a wife. The fact is, I’d as soon mate with a hornet or a snapping-bug as
one of these Yankee girls! I pity Black-Eyes’ husband sincerely,” Tennessean
proclaimed. (1859.1.93) Hawthorn send a letter so inflammatory that Robert
Merry was forced to trim it: “Our friend Hawthorne seems rather ‘put out’ at
the ‘Yankee girls,’ and says some things not very complimentary about them;
so we must use the scissors rather freely.” However, the editor did let stand
Hawthorn’s assertion that Black-Eyes “surely must have a weak, quiet sort of a
husband.” (1859.2.60-61) “ ‘Hawthorne,’ ” Black-Eyes replied, “I aint
got a weak husband. You just come over and see.” (1859.2.127) Other
Northern females got more heated. Fleta made mincemeat out of Tennessean’s
attempt to make her the exception to his rule about Northern girls by sending
his love to her: “If said ‘Tennessean’ prefers a wife who would obediently
wipe the dust from his feet with her hair, when commanded—instead of giving
him a good, vigorous ‘shaking,’ as he would deserve—so be it. I
think, in that case, no ‘Yankee girl’ would care to ‘waste breath’ on him.
Their indignation would be solely directed against the pusillanimous being who
could thus tamely submit
to be trampled upon.”
(1859.1.124) At a time when women’s rights were being argued in the country,
both sides—heated not only by the sectional conflict in the Chat, but the
growing sectionalism in the country—appear to have projected their worst
fears about the opposite gender onto their opposite in gender and geography.

Not surprisingly, the Merry Cousins began to try to “fix”
each other’s real identities. Maggie requested a description of William Hoyt
Coleman which remained unfulfilled. (1857.1.153) Ethel R., of Mississippi,
tried to guess another subscriber’s name, though her guess remained unverified:
“I think Miss Lizzie G. writes her name Miss Lizzie G—n, of C—n, Miss.; and
furthermore, did I not hear her sing and play at a concert, at the
‘afore-mentioned’ town, ‘not a hundred years agone?’
I think so.”
(1861.1.89) Cousins imagined one another. Nannie Nightingale
visualized the Cousins in terms of their personalities: “Oh!
here’s a group of Chatters just to my liking. Loving Sybil Grey
looking toward Willie, and talking of the vanity of men. Bright
Fleta Forrester, with her lively sallies on various subjects.
Sweet Annie Drummond and gallant Sir Oliver Onley appear to be
making themselves mutually agreeable.” (1861.2.24) Josie described
the physical:

What magnificent creature, I wonder, is that? “She is straight and
slender as hazel twigs, and (I’m certain) sweeter than their
kernels.” I am quite sure that must be Sybil Grey. And then that
little fairy near, whose eyes are “deeply, darkly,” beautifully
blue, with magnolia bloom, and wealth of sunny curls. Who can she
be? Daisy Wildwood? … That young gentleman by the door has what
I would call a striking face—gray eyes, large mouth, great
breadth and airiness about the forehead. See! what earnestness and
grace he displayed in flinging that “tumbledown lock” back—he’s
a lawyer, take my word for it; aren’t you, Hawthorn? (1860.2.26)

Improvements in technology allowed the Cousins to exchange cartes
de visite with each other and with the editors, in the early 1860s,
and some identities were thereby cemented, among them Wilforley’s.
Charles M. Eames informed William Hoyt Coleman that there should
be “no more talk about Aunt Sue and Wilforley being identical. The
problem is solved—I’ve seen their “picture,” and as to the last,
it is a veritable he,
with boots.” (1861.2.156)

This desire to identify each other led to other methods of
recognizing members of the community of the Chat in real life. In
1859, Annie suggested that “the Merry family should wear a badge;
if we meet while journeying during the summer months, it would be
pleasant to recognize each other.” (1859.2.93) Four years later,
May Clayton made the same suggestion; and after W. A. R. suggested
a design of a capital M on either page of an open book,
it was made up for the Merry Cousins in
1864. Until the badges were ready, Aunt Sue suggested, impatient Cousins
could “pin a large capital M to his coat when he is in car or steamboat, and
if he sees any lady or gentleman pinning an M on to her or his shoulder, in
response, it shall be as a sign that a Merry is present, ready to
enter the right hand of fellowship.” (1863.2.120) Charles F.
Warren also suggested that “any of the Merrys who may be at the
White Mountains this summer write ‘M. M.’ after their names when
recording them on the hotel book, as he desires to see some of the
cousins there.” (1863.2.62) The desire to identify each other led
inevitably to meeting in a real-life version of the virtual parlor
in 1865.

Though Sherry Turkle points out that “it is natural for
people to feel let down or confused when they meet their virtual
lovers in person” (207), there is no sense that the Cousins were
disappointed when they finally met—whether through photographs,
through friends, or through the Merry Convention. Of course, such
disappointments might not have shown up in the Chat. But a
subscriber’s relationship was with several other subscribers, not
just the one “virtual lovers” enjoy, so the relationships may have
been less intense; also, if you didn’t get along with one
subscriber, chances were that there were others you could
get along with. While subscribers did become friends in real life
—Oliver Onley, Henry A. Danker, William Forrest Oakley, Sam
Slick, and Tommy knew each other—the individual friendships
weren’t highlighted in the Chat, and it’s almost impossible to know
from the letters alone just who knew each other in real life,
and how much. The
“Merry Convention” in John N. Stearns’ parlor in
December 1865 reflected the virtual meetings in the Chat, with the
adults in control; the emphasis of the evening was on conversing,
just as it was in the virtual parlor. “It was really agreeable,”
wrote In the Corner, “to see the many pleasant surprises, to shake
by the hand those with whom one was acquainted but had never met,
to see so many ‘strange familiar faces.’ ” (1866.1.57) There is a
sense that the only Cousins disappointed about the meeting were
those who couldn’t go.

The Chat worked as an online community because those who
put it together unconsciously did many things “right.” John Suler
and Amy Jo Kim, among others, have pointed out various ways in
which online communities work better. Among these are keeping an
intimate feel, conveying the history of the group, giving the group
a structure and purpose, making clear the standards of conduct, and
integrating life “online” and life “offline.” The Chat could keep
an “intimate feel” because it had to: In spite of the fact that
the column occasionally stretched its limits
(in 1855 and 1856, the Chat occasionally reached 11 pages; other
years it sometimes achieved 8), there were only so many pages in
the magazine, so only a certain number of letters could be printed
in the Chat. John Suler points out that, in order to maintain well-being,
a group should have a way to convey its history
(“Maximizing”); and, in fact, a number of online groups include a
history in their FAQs. The Chat had William Hoyt Coleman’s
“Retrospectum; or, The Chat in Bygone Days,” which appeared at a
critical point in the Museum’s life: when it absorbed a
rival magazine that had its own version of the Chat. For several
months after the merger, the columns from the other magazine were
carried on by their editors, making
three letters columns in one
magazine. Highlighting as it did important or interesting events
in the Chat’s history, the “Retrospectum” no doubt helped to blend
the two groups by allowing them to share the history of their new
letters column.

The structure and purpose of the Chat were redefined
several times over its 32-years. In the name of saving space, the
editors moved from printing letters in full, to boiling them down
to “Extracted Essences,” and then to printing a trimmed version.
Though the purpose of the Chat was essentially defined by the
subscribers working in cooperation with the editors, it, too,
changed. In the 1840s, the column was full of diffident little
descriptions of readers’ admiration of the Museum and of their
towns, with the occasional puzzle. The 1850s saw the explosion of
the Chat as a gossipy column in which readers joked with and
bickered with each other; some letters were little more than a
series of greetings and puns. While in the 1840s letters often
referred to the stories in the rest of the magazine, after the
1850s there’s little sense from the letters column that the rest
of the magazine existed. Attempts to repurpose the column
generally failed. Robert Merry was quick to agree when Cousin I.
suggested in 1864 that “all cousins … take the trouble to note
down every interesting, instructive, or amusing little incident
that comes under their notice, and … put it in readable form and
send to the M.” (1864.2.185); but the other Merry Cousins didn’t
respond. Herman’s words on the subject three years later were
sharper; he implied that the letters sounded so much alike that he
was convinced that they were all written by one person:

Now, Cousins of all ages, the reason why I believed that
all the Chat originated from one person was simply this: All the
correspondence bear such a similarity to each other—in fact, the
same words and general expressions are used in nearly all the
letters, that I could hardly believe that twenty or forty different
correspondents should adopt almost the same style.

True, there have been a few exceptions; the Chat for the
month of March contains a good deal of original, spicy matter,
which I am pleased to see.

… I would suggest that some of the Cousins … would
write for the May number on some little different subject—as, for
instance, thus: Tell us, Cousins, how do you spend your Sabbath
day? What is your work, occupation during the week? name every
day. I do truly believe it would be of general interest to all the
readers of the Chat if the Merry Cousins would give us a true
insight of their life, as far as occupation is concerned; some
other time it might be pleasant to hear what amusements you prefer,
what books you read or like most, etc. (1867.1.122)

Most of the Cousins ignored him.
W. A. R. waxed nostalgic and
suggested that the Cousins relate “ ‘yarns’—some of our adventures,
or some occurrences with which we are familiar”: “What say you,
Merrys, shall we yarn it, or continue this twiddle-twaddle? Many
of my correspondents express themselves as tired of the
nonsense.… ” (1867.2.59) The repurposing occurred only with a new
owner and a new editor—neither with emotional ties to the
magazine or the subscribers.

Especially important, however, the Cousins integrated
their “online” and “offline” lives. “[P]eople tend to separate
their online lives from their offline lives,” Suler notes. “You
may have online companions, groups, and activities that are quite
distinct from those you have in the face-to-face world. For some
people, the two worlds are worlds apart.” Exacerbating this
separation is the fact that because there are so many, highly
specialized online groups, people often split themselves between
several lists dedicated to their interests: “Cyberspace provides
places for you to perch all of your identifications—places all
separate from each other, each containing people who may know
little or nothing about your other perches.” Pulling together the
separate facets is important to achieving a full sense of self:
“If the goal of life is to know thyself, … then it must entail
knowing how the various elements of thyself fit together to make
that Big Self that is you. Reaching that goal also means
understanding and taking down the barriers between the sectors of
self.” (“Integrating”) Besides, overemphasizing online
relationships can make offline life damned lonely.

The Merry Cousins didn’t have the possibility of becoming
addicted to the Chat in the same way some computer users become
addicted to the Internet—though they did note the pull the
letters column had on them. “I thought the Convention last year
had ended my career,” Jasper admitted; “but there is a charm …
about the Merry circle, which held fast to me and whirled me ’round
month by month… ” (1867.1.27); “the Chat has charms for me that
I can not resist,” May wrote (1866.1.61); Jennie agreed that “your
happy circle … has such an irresistible attraction for so many
of us.” (1866.1.155) The Museum, however, didn’t tend to
isolate the Cousins from family and friends. Subscribers discussed
the magazine, its articles, and the Chat with their friends (Harry
C.’s discussion became so heated, he ended up in a fistfight over
the Museum’s honor [1852.1.63]) and their families (Carolus
and his siblings read the magazine aloud to their mother
[1846.1.29-30]). They got parents and siblings to act as their
amanuenses. Louisa J. Neal and Henry R. S. “earned” their magazine
subscriptions from their parents by writing a letter to the Chat.
(1850.1.127; 1850.2.186) Subscribers met each other in real life:
“Oliver Onley did call on me New Year’s day in company with
Tommy and Osceola,” Josie wrote to Robert Merry in 1863. “Did you
acquaint them with my whereabouts? if so, please receive my most
hearty thanks and carte de visite as a slight expression of
them.” (1863.1.59) They also visited the editors: “We … were
highly gratified to have a call from [Clementina Tompkins], as she
passed through New York, last summer” (1845.2.187); “During the
last month the sanctum has been invaded by quite a group of Merry
boys. Oliver Onley, H. A. Danker, Wilforley, Sam Slick, and Tommy
surrounded Uncle Merry, who surrendered at discretion. They at
once made themselves at home, inspecting drawers and pigeon-holes,
examining the mutilated remains of letters, feeling the temper of
the hatchet, sounding the depth of the basket, and exploring the
other mysteries of the sanctum. The interview was exceedingly
pleasant. Aunt Sue and Uncle Hiram were also visited, and we were
all glad to take them by the hand, and hope many more of the
members of our numerous family will call whenever they are
in this great city.”
(1861.2.56) And the editors visited them right back:
Oliver Onley accompanied editor John N. Stearns and others to Nova
Scotia; on a trip in 1867, Robert Merry “enjoyed a chat with
‘Mamie’ and other Merrys very much … ” (1867.2.89)

Such visiting couldn’t help but cement the relationship the
subscribers had with their magazine. For online groups, Suler
points out, “it is extremely helpful when there is a critical mass
of people who have solidified their relationships offline. These
people often become the stable, enduring core that hold the
community together.” (“Integrating”) In the case of the Chat, the
“core” consisted primarily of the editors, and the Cousins who
lived near enough to visit the Museum’s office: the
“wizards” of the Museum. Fleta Forrester edited the puzzle
column in place of Susanna Newbould; Willie Coleman wrote the
Chat’s history; Jasper, Leslie, Tommy, In the Corner, and Loyalty
planned the “Merry Convention” in John N. Stearns’ house.

The Convention was the climax of the Chat’s history:
the virtual group in the virtual parlor met face to face in the
very real parlor of the Museum’s editor. Suggested by the
Cousins, it was also planned by the Cousins, for the benefit of the
community: “The object of this Convention is to strengthen the
bands of love and friendship which have so long held together the
Cousins in the Chat columns, and to bring about a personal social
intercourse between all those who though not personally acquainted
have always felt a lively interest in each other, thereby promoting
general good feeling and perfect harmony among the subscribers of
the Museum.” (1865.2.183-184) Symbolically, the magazine’s
offices were the starting point, the place at which arriving
Cousins registered: “At the Museum office will be found a
book in which we would like to have all Merrys register their names
and addresses when they arrive in the city.” (1865.2.184) As
described two months later, the gathering operated very much like
a real-time version of the virtual parlor, with editors quipping
with Cousins; the usual premium was on wordplay:

Jasper called the meeting to order, and Uncle Merry nominated Uncle
William as chairman, who was unanimously elected. This gentleman
appeared rather bashful, so a committee of six ladies was
appointed, who escorted him to the chair. …

Aunt Sue was then elected chairwoman, to keep the
chairman straight.

Jasper was elected secretary; and as this gentleman also
seemed rather weak in the knees, a committee of eight ladies was
appointed, who didn’t escort him. (1866.1.57-58)

Timing-wise, the Convention was certainly the climax: two years
later, the Chat would be gone as another editor took over the
magazine. Some Cousins, however, also seemed to see the Convention
as their own climax; some stopped writing after the Convention.
Jasper, who’d helped plan the meeting and who was now an adult,
seemed to see the gathering as a natural stopping point: “I
thought the Convention … had ended my career.” (1867.1.27)

Why the similarities between the Chat and online
communities developed probably are due to factors beyond the
exigencies of communicating via the written word—and currently
beyond the scope of my research. Race may have been a factor: in
1998, researchers found that an overwhelming majority of Internet
users were white. (Suler, “Demographics”) The same was true in the
Chat: while a handful of Cousins were Native Americans attending
mission schools, most were white.

Certainly the ages of the Cousins was important. While the
Cousins ranged in age from 5 to 74, the bulk were in their
teens—the age at which we begin to expore ourselves and the
world around us, learning who we are and what it is to be an adult.
Over the 32-year history, the median age at which Cousins sent
their first letter to the magazine was 11. During the
Chat’s liveliest years, the median age of participating Cousins
rose seven years: from age 11 in 1856, to a high of 18.5 in 1864.

In 2001, adolescents send each other instant messages, subscribe to
e-lists to discuss interests and celebrity heartthrobs, or gather
in chat rooms to—well, to chat; the parlor was the Cousins’ chat
room.

Other similarities may include economic class: most of
those surveyed in 1998 were fairly well off, earning from $25,000
to $75,000 per year. The Cousins participating in the Chat may
have been at a similar economic level; figures aren’t available for
the general population in the 19th-century U. S., but the Cousins
tended to be from middle or upper-middle class families. Not al
the readers were well-off; Operator was, at age 15, a “poor
telegraph operator”; William W. worked in a mill. (1865.1.94;
1857.2.59) In the early years, at least two subscribers “paid” for
their subscriptions without money: H. P. I.’s payment was in poems
written by his mother, because, he explained, “we live in a new
country, and father has so many ways to use all the money he can
get, that I cannot have it yet.” (1849.1.152-153) Susan H.
Johnson’s father was a Presbyterian minister who couldn’t afford
the magazine; her letter paid for six issues. (1848.2.93) Many
people in 19th-century America were farmers; many of the Cousins
had parents who weren’t. William Oakley’s father was a bank
president. Phebe A. Preston’s father co-founded the Virginia
Military Institute. Many readers in the South were the children
of planters: Mary W. Fluker wrote from Asphodel Plantation; Willie
Kenner’s father owned Pasture Plantation, on which he eventually
founded a town. A number of readers were the children of
Presbyterian ministers, perhaps because the Museum was for
a time published by the firm responsible for the Mother’s
Magazine, which was aimed at Presbyterians.

One thing the Cousins certainly had in common with many who
frequent cyberspace was a love of puzzles and games. “Those who
frequent MUDs tend also to be interested in games and puzzles,”
according to Pavel Curtis. The Merry Cousins loved puzzles; and
many—like Daniel Hudson Burnham and Adelbert Older—who sent
letters to the Chat were also avid puzzlers.

A sense of community

For the Cousins, the Chat was more than just letters; it
was a unique community. For Bertina,

all through childhood’s days the beloved Museum has been my dearest
companion, and as we grew up together, nothing gave me more
happiness than to spend hours over its magic pages. All these
years I have been with you, till your names and faces are become
as familiar as those of my friends. I have been with you unseen,
when the circle re-echoed with joy and gladness; and when the
shadow of the “dark-winged angel” has fallen heavily upon you, I,
too, a sincere mourner, have been with you in your grief. (1865.2.123)

W. A. R.—though he quipped that some of the Cousins “like the
grave-digger who said he’d bury his best friend for a dollar, would
sell me at the first opportunity”—echoed her:

[W]hen I became a Merry Coz, at the suggestion of my late friend,
H. A. Danker, I had no idea of the pleasure and wealth of
friendship to be derived from it—it is one of those bright spots
in my life that can never grow dim. Even as I love the scenes of
my boyhood and the happy hours spent with those good old books,
Parley’s Magazine and Merry’s Museum—so in my old age I
love the Chat and my Merry Correspondence. … [T]hink of this,
all ye people! old and young, from all parts of our country,
connected in the bonds of friendship, for only one dollar and a
half per year, postage stamps extra. (1866.1.58-59)

In fact, the greatest inheritance some Cousins could think of to
bestow on later generations was their own version of the magazine
and of Robert Merry. When the Cousins were “grandpops and
grandmarms,” W. A. R. hoped that “the remembrance of these Merry
days will cause a continual sunshine of good-nature, that will make
us forget the ills of our existence, and make generations to come
wish they, too, had an Uncle Merry.” (1865.2.24) “[W]hen the time
shall come for us to lay aside our pens, and bid each other
farewell,” Willie Coleman declared, “may our children, yeah, and
our children’s children, rise up to fill our places; may new Uncle
Merrys succeed the present beloved occupant of the great arm-chair;
and may the monthly Chat be a perennial fountain of mirth and
good-fellowship to Young America, down to the remotest posterity.
Amen!” (1860.1.59)

And, of course, we have our own version of the
Chat—rowdier, more ephemeral, often cruder. The Merry Cousins
couldn’t have imagined the online communities of today; but they
would understand how they operate. Especially, they would
understand the sense of community that can evolve even while one
sits solitary at the keyboard. Dreaming of the Chat, Softsoap saw
the Cousins—and wished for the dream to come true:

References to items in Robert Merry’s
Museum are designed to send the reader to the Museum
itself. For most of its life, each issue of the magazine was 32
pages; there were two volumes (six issues each) per year.
References to items in the magazine give the year, the volume
number in that year, and the page number; thus, a letter appearing
on page 127 of the October 1841 issue is referred to as
1841.2.127.